


To Walk Beside You

by badteeth



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Fantastic Racism, M/M, additional warnings/tags in end notes, which is still not my favorite phrase whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: Jimmy dies in the winter of '79. Life goes on.





	1. 70

**Author's Note:**

> This has been picking at me for well over a year, I am so freaking thrilled to finally be kicking it out of my Google Drive and into the world. Thank you to Pucking Rare for forcing a ~~final, for real~~ deadline onto me, and special, massive thanks to everyone who has listened to me whine and wheedle while writing this, and for prodding and poking and pushing me to actually finishing.
> 
> Jimmy and his life are very much the focus of this fic. Things get a little rough. Each chapter has more specific warnings in the end notes, and please let me know if there's anything I should add/make more clear.
> 
> Title is from "The Sad Punk" by The Pixies; the full relevant line is, "And evolving from the sea/Would not be too much time for me/To walk beside you in the sun."
> 
> Thank you for clicking, hope you enjoy <3

On May 25, 1979, _Alien_ began showing in theaters nationwide. It was decided the night before, with no small amount of arguing, bargaining, and decries of injustice from his siblings, that Jimmy would stay in Charleston after school. It took several rounds of negotiation.

“What time do you think this movie will be over? I’m not sure about you driving all the way back from the city in the dark,” Mrs. Vesey fretted. On the TV, Danno manhandled a murderer or thief or kidnapper into handcuffs. It was a rerun, and the thought of _Hawaii Five-0_ going on without him made Jimmy’s heart hurt.

“Then I’ll sleep on Matt or Brendan’s sofa, it’s chill, Ma, come on,” Jimmy begged.

“Matt?” Mr. Vesey cut in. “That Grzelcyk kid?”

“Or Brendan,” Jimmy emphasized.

His father grunted, then said, “He’s a good one. Jimmy’ll be fine for the night, Amy, let the boy go.”

Mrs. Vesey put up another few moments of arguing, but it seemed almost token, even before she relented. “I expect a phone call when you all get back,” she warned, even as she settled against her husband’s side.

Jimmy blinked in surprise. Small steps. “Right on,” he responded. “I’ll see you Saturday, alright?”

He kisses his mother on the cheek, nods at his father, then escapes upstairs before they can change their minds. In their bedroom, Jimmy found Nolan facedown in his bed, a craggy voice bemoaning, _Together, we could break this trap. We'll run till we drop, baby we'll never go back—_

Though the pillow, Jimmy could make out, “I hate you.”

“Then stop stealing my records, punk,” he responded, walking past both Nolan and the spinning vinyl. It was earlier than either of them usually turned in, and neither of them had schoolwork to do. Jimmy would be graduating in two weeks. After stretched out in front of him: summer, Harvard, the possibilities waiting there. The _now_ seemed to drag on forever.

 

* * *

 

Driving out to Belmont Hill woke Jimmy up before the rest of the house. He showered in peace, threw on khakis and a blazer in the dark, and ate his Pop-Tarts in a daze, staring at the kitchen clock. Ten more minutes, and he’d have to miss U.S. History. Jimmy could probably afford it. Barely.

A thud came from upstairs while Jimmy was still debating, followed by someone thundering down the stairs. Nolan turned sharply into the kitchen, still clad in only his underwear. The summer head had slunk in early that year. “Gimme a ride in,” Nolan demanded, eyes crazed.

“Hell, no. I’m not wasting my gas when you can walk,” Jimmy said. Nolan’s school wasn’t too far out of the way, but Jimmy’s tank was getting low and the Iranian situation still didn’t look like it was going to clear up any time soon. Plus, he really did have to get to class. Matt was expecting an answer about their plans.

“Come on, man, be cool,” Nolan whined, pushing off against the doorframe. “I woke up late.”

“Then you better book it,” Jimmy responded. He watched Nolan curse his name and storm off, licked the last strawberry crumbs off his fingers, and walked out the front door before the house truly started to shake awake.

He made it to class a handful of minutes after the bell, halfheartedly blaming the highway. His teacher scolded him with equal enthusiasm, then let him slide into his seat next Matt.

Matt’s lips twitched, and Jimmy felt his doing the same, fighting a half-guilty smile. Mr. Sullivan had them doing “independent study,” which mostly consists of doing very little as quietly as possible. They made it through a couple half hearted minutes of flipping through their textbook before Matt bursted, “Are you down for tonight?”

Jimmy didn’t fight the smile that time. He was happy to not disappoint.

Later in the day, they leave campus for lunch, greasy fries and burgers snuck out of the cafeteria and a joint Matt’s older brother taught him how to roll. They ate under a tree, behind the athletic fields, stripped down to their undershirts. It was a sunny day, and Jimmy couldn’t take his eyes off the knobby-kneed first forms getting run ragged by Coach DiGuiseppi, waiting for someone to spot and break the peace, just for a change of pace.

Matt knocked their shoulders together eventually, waited until their eyes met, and said, “Hey, you gotta chill, alright?”

And Jimmy stared back at Matt, the blue of his eyes, the wideness of his face, and said, “We can’t go back there.”

“We’re fine, it’s never as obvious as you think it is,” Matt responded, soothingly. Jimmy wasn’t worried about getting caught smoking. There were rumors every winter about teachers who don’t want to leave the building for smoke breaks, home visits with certain smells or outright party favors. Jimmy found them all both very hard to believe or to discount. Blind eyes everywhere.

The spot where his shoulder touched Matt’s felt hot, electric.

“I don’t _want_ to go back there,” Jimmy clarified. Matt laughed, looking away but leaning heavier against Jimmy

“Figures the aspiring barney is the worst of us all. May this power you through these last few hours.” He shoved the last of the fries into Jimmy’s mouth, fingers catching on dull teeth and chapped lips, and Jimmy chewed obediently. It took some manhandling to get Jimmy off the ground again and walking back towards school. Even once they’re back on campus, Matt’s fingers stayed twisted around Jimmy’s wrist for a few extra seconds.

 

Jimmy and Matt find Brendan loitering on the Grzelcyk stoop. They traded trite barbs about their respective schools—too preppy or too breathe-down-your-neck Catholic, respectively—as Matt unlocked the front door and led them up to his room. They lay out the their school closes carefuly, none of them looking to deal with creases again with graduation so close, before changing into street clothes. A couple of minutes are spent in Mrs. Grzelcyk’s kitchen trying to decide what to do until showtime, picking at whatever food they could find. It didn’t take long for them to dig up a few sticks and a few balls before spilling into the Kitchen.

 

The theater was crowded, and its air conditioning struggled to keep up. Jimmy stayed tucked up against Matt’s side, ostensibly to get away from the stranger on his other side. Their entire arms were pressed together this time, from wrist to shoulder. It made it easy to tell when either of them jumped. Jimmy was wound tight by the time Ridley and Dallas made it to the the medical lab looking for the facehugger, felt stupid when a metallic bang had him curling around Matt’s shoulder.

“Spaz,” Matt whispered at him, except his lips were against the top of Jimmy’s head, and he jumped, too, a minute later, when the little alien reappeared.

They’re both looking again when _the_ alien popped out of Kane’s chest.

“Jesus Christ,” Brendan wheezed, from the other side of Matt. Jimmy almost forgot about him.

 

There were a lot of things that made Boston mothers very nervous in 1979. Brendan ended up not being allowed to walk home that night, either, so him and Jimmy taking turns at the kitchen phone to call back home and ensure their safety.

They smoked again, torsos leaning as far out of Matt’s window as possible, then wandered back downstairs to disappear any leftovers. Brendan was particularly enthusiastic, as to be expected.

Jimmy said, “The way you eat, the Collier’s better give this family a hell of a discount.”

In reality, all of them were something of a holy terror at Brendan’s family’s store, in terms of free or stolen food consumption. At various points through the years of their friendship, they had been threatened with levels of violence that made the back of Jimmy’s neck hot, but Brendan led them through it with a cool head and sticky, unashamed fingers.

Brendan snorted and said, “What do you think all our old ladies are talking about after service? Bunch of racket, I’m telling ya, now that Howie’s out of the way—”

“You are not going to be welcome here any longer if you bring that sort of talk into my house,” Matt interrupted, and they all laughed, because it was a good impersonation.

They spent the rest of the night in front of Matt’s new boombox, volume turned low, flipping through cassettes. It was a lazy sort of life. The weed made their eyes dry and tacky. There’s some debate about who would take John’s old bed.

“I’m good, man, go. Me and Gryzzy are gonna stay up,” Jimmy said. Brendan shot a doubtful look at the lump of blankets Matt folded himself into, but wasn’t about to fight Jimmy’s generosity.

Jimmy stayed at his spot on the floor, back pressed against the mattress, until he heard Brendan stop moving around further down the hallway. When the house went silent, it felt necessary to whisper as he asked, “Are you really going to sleep on me right now?”

Farrah Fawcett smiled down at them from the opposite wall. Jimmy could hear a smile as Matt said, “Yup. Goodnight, Jimmy-boy.”

“You’re such a fucking _square.”_ Matt’s foot stuck out over the edge, so Jimmy grabbed his ankle and followed it up. Under the blankets, it was overly hot and reeked of Matt. Jimmy could feel himself breathing quicker. The hair of Matt’s legs gave out a little past his knees. When Jimmy lowered his mouth, all he tasted was salt.

Above him, Matt laughed. “What are you doing?”

“I vant to suck your blood,” Jimmy replied, hammy, then sucks hard enough to leave a mark at Matt’s thigh.

“Gross,” Matt laughed again. He shifted beneath Jimmy, rolled off the blanket, twisted a hand into Jimmy’s hair and tugged. His face was soft and flat—still high—but Jimmy could feel the warmth of it in his stomach. “I have something better for you to suck on.”

Jimmy drops his jaw, aching for it.

 

When Jimmy woke the next day, his skin was overheated, tacky from sweat. Cool air blew against his back for a few seconds before the blankets were tucked back up around his neck. When Jimmy glanced back, he saw Matt stepping away from the bed carefully, reaching for his clothes. When he caught Jimmy watching, he whispered, “Go back to sleep, I’m gonna go fold out the couch.”

“What? I can go,” Jimmy mumbled. He started to roll over and got shoved back into place.

“No. Keep the bed. Happy birthday.” A hand squeezes his neck. A second later, the door clicked open, then shut.

Jimmy blinked slowly. Nineteen didn’t feel all that different from eighteen.

 

When they were all up and about, Mrs. G made pancakes. She’d always liked having them all over. Iminent empty-nesting, Jimmy thought. His own mother was ready for it, even with two left to go, but Matt was the youngest of his brothers, by a long shot, and Jimmy didn’t like the thought of depriving Mrs. G of that.

He was in no real rush to leave, except Matt and Brendan started prodding at him around noon.

They wanted to ride with, even.

It all clicked into place.

“No,” Jimmy said.

“What? We gotta catch up with Big Jim, it’s been awhile,” Matt claimed, eyes wide.

Jimmy repeated, _“No.”_

“Veser, you’re breaking your mother’s heart. Get in the car,” Brendan said sternly, looking up from where he was shoving sticks in the back of Jimmy’s Pinto.

Sure enough, the Vesey house was overflowing by the time they got back to North Reading. A pick-up game had already laid claim to their driveway. They parked further down the road and are met with celebratory hollars, _there’s the kid!,_ as they walked into the back yard. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, most of Jimmy’s teammates from Belmont Hill; it was all a little mortifying.

The game paused long enough for Jimmy to pick Nolan out. He punched his shoulder, pulled him under his arm, and said, “You _knew.”_

Nolan, the little shit, smirked. “Couldn’t ruin the surprise.”

As they stood there, the goalie walked up and pulled off the mask, revealing his sister’s red, smiling face before she joined in on the hug. “Happy birthday, Jimmy. Can you please tell these tools to let me out of goal?”

“You’re in goal because you're youngest,” Jimmy said automatically, twisting his fingers gently into her dirt blonde ponytail. It’s the way of the world.

“No, I’m not, _Teddy_ is,” Lisa protested, all huffed up and indignant only a twelve year old could muster up.

“Teddy, who? Teddy Donato?” It didn’t feel right, but, sure enough, there was George’s littlest brother standing in his shadow, skinny and dark-haired. “What the hell, guys, come on. You don’t mess with tradition.”

After some squabbling, mostly from the Donatos, Lisa’s stick was back in her hands, but the issue of newcomer draft rights looked like it’d go on for awhile. Jimmy still felt out of sorts, awake earlier than he usually was on off-days and deprived of any sort of regularity, snuck inside. He found wandered into the kitchen, thirsty and following his nose, but was immediately shooed back out.

“It’s not like I can’t smell what you’re cooking,” Jimmy called in. He couldn’t even imagine, how long it took to cook for that many people. It was ridiculous. He would never ask for this, was still thinking that when his mom came out after a minute and squeezed him tight. “Ah, Ma, come on. This is a lot.”

“I know, I know. We’re all just so proud of you, we wanted to celebrate,” she replied. She sounded misty already, and it made Jimmy’s chest tighten embarrassingly, too.

Luckily, his father was there to lighten the mood, hollering, “It’s a long way for a kid who failed kindergarten!”

Everyone laughed, and Jimmy hid his face in his mother’s hair for a few seconds. It wasn’t how he’d have chosen to spend his birthday. He was never big on crowds, and most years all he was satisfied by a nice family supper and some cake. The sentimentality of loving everyone there, everyone loving him back, how lucky he was to have so many good people in his life, caught him a little off guard, was all.

The Unabomber was still out there somewhere, riots were in the street of San Francisco, the WHA had folded in on itself, and the Stanley Cup went home with the fucking Canadiens, but for a moment, everything was alright.

 

* * *

 

Graduation slid by without any affair, then it was summer. A new schedule built up easy: putting in time at the market, cruising up and down the state, hours of road hockey, wasting time with the boys. Matt. The hot lull of summer rolled on forever.

Then August rolled in, and Mrs. Vesey starting hinting, pressuring, demanding that Jimmy look for college supplies. Bedding. Books. A _wardrobe,_ since his schoolboy uniforms were a thing of the past.

For months, him and Matt swore they were going to make it out to the Cape, just the two of them and a bed. The closest they got was sprawling out side-by-side on Shay’s Beach, pinking in the setting sun. Jimmy watched as a plane swooped into a safe landing, then turned to face Matt and ask, “You wanna see a movie?”

Matt hummed but didn’t open his eyes. His bare chest—a narrow shade darker and a whole lot pinker than it’d been three months ago—glistened with either water from the inlet or sweat, Jimmy wasn’t sure. “My company not entertaining enough for you?”

“Come on,” Jimmy scoffed, “it’s just, you know, our thing. The new Coppola’s supposed to be good.”

A cold breeze blew as Matt grimaced and said, “No thanks.”

Him and Jimmy were just little kids when Matt’s oldest brother went to war. Didn’t come back. Hardly felt real, even as a bruise no one could stop poking at. Jimmy wonders what Matt remembered of it, if it was different watching all that on TV and knowing David was over there.

 _“Amityville?”_ Jimmy offered. “Brendan saw it with his girl, and he said—”

“Fuck, no,” Matt interrupted, and the rejection actually stings until he continues, hesitant, softer, “Doesn’t it freak you out, the thought of demons and stuff getting inside you and making you evil?”

It took a minute to process, before Jimmy responded, carefully, “I don’t think really think any of that is real. Not any more than aliens.”

“But what if it _is?”_ Matt pressed. It wasn’t the first time they had that conversation. Far from it. But Jimmy didn’t exactly want to rehash it now, here.

He shrugged, dismissive. “Then I guess St. Pete can judge me at the gate.”

Neither of them spoke for a long few minutes, and the anxiety Jimmy’s mother had been kindling started to lick like flames up the inside in his chest. Move-in was only a few Saturdays away. Harvard’s closer to Boston University than North Reading is to Charlestown. Jimmy tried not to worry.

Another plane roared overhead. Jimmy watched it go as Matt spoke up again. “You hungry?”

Jimmy said, “Yeah, I could eat.”

In silent agreement, they made their way to Santarpio’s and got their pizza and sausage. Jimmy let Matt take the bread. There was a tear in the table’s vinyl covering. Only the hovering threat of violence kept him from picking at it.

Matt kicked Jimmy in the ankle, making him jolt. He looked up, then followed Matt’s nod towards one of the waiters milling around. “He go to Seb’s?”

Black hair. Strong jaw. A little younger than them. Jimmy didn’t recognize him, but Jimmy never made a habit of checking out the other team, either. “I dunno, maybe.”

“But he _looks_ it, right?” Matt said, eyebrows raised, and Jimmy sighed, and Matt continued, “Yeah, yeah, fine, sorry. Like Belmont’s any better. You want the last piece?”

“‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry,’” Jimmy responded dryly. “You can have it.”

Matt set his jaw, and, without much honest fight in him, Jimmy took the slice. He bit into it, the still-crisp crust and kick of garlic and fresh tomatoes and smooth mozzarella. Fuck, Jimmy loved pizza.

Jimmy ate in silence, knowing that Matt was watching him but not caring. It’s not until he’s licking off his fingers that Matt said, “We could see _Moonraker_ again. Or Rocky.”

“Oh, I’m sure you want to see Rocky again,” Jimmy scoffed.

Matt leered again and locked his legs around Jimmy’s again. “What can I say, the curls, the stoicism. I dig it.”

Jimmy snorted, then laughed. “Jesus christ.”

He felt better after they paid, both throwing down a couple bills, and walked back out to Jimmy’s car. The last sunlight had finally leaked away, and they’d probably missed the last showing times for the day. Still, his parents wouldn’t be wondering after him for a bit longer. Jimmy drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wondering if they should even bother with heading towards the South End. It’d been a long day.

Jimmy started the car, and said, “Did I tell you Nolan’s jacking my ride?”

“What? _How?”_ Matt laughed. He always looked so comfortable in Jimmy’s passenger seat.

“My ‘rents, man, they’re repossessing it. Said he’d need it more than me once I’m living closer to the city, like the fucking _red line_ is some sort of major convenience. This things a fuckin’ deathtrap, besides. it’s like they want to kill us,” Jimmy joked, pulling out onto Chelsea Street. Maybe they could just take the long way back to the town.

 

* * *

 

_Matty—_

_It feels stupid writing this when you're so close, but you don't call, don't come over, weren't around the last few times I visited Brendan. What's a girl to think?_

_I know it's different for you being on BU’s squad, but I miss playing hockey. There are enough people around Harvard and probably at BU and the other schools around that we could probably get a cool tourney going._

_Get back to me._

_Love you,_ _  
_ _J_

 

Somewhere in Colorado, a Cold War training program mistaken for the real thing nearly sent two continents into nuclear winter.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy died in alleyway outside Paradise.

He stumbled a few blocks towards Main Street, towards the salt-and-pepper bridge and Mass General. A cold snap had settled in the day before, frigid even for December in Boston, but Jimmy only had a thin t-shirt that clung tighter as the blood seeped past his fingers, down from his neck, soaking it.

An MIT police cruiser stopped him before he even made it to the river.

“Please,” Jimmy begged, breath short, voice rough. “Please, I need help, I just wanna live—”

Neither of the officers wanted to bother with handcuffs. They put him into the back of their car.

The bleeding stopped. A deep, burning chill took hold of Jimmy.

When the car rolled to a stop, a hesitant hand reached in, then gripped him firmly.

The hands guided him to a room—a cell—and slide the door shut behind him.

Time passed. The chill in his chest started prickling, crystallizing into a stabbing fire without the heat, and radiated outward with every beat of his heart. His ribs felt like they were cracking under the pressure, concaving inward.

The crowd outside leaked out. A shift change. Jimmy can’t close his mouth. His jaw, his gums, felt as though they were dissolving in his mouth.

His mind scrambled. He was dying. Something was fundamentally very, very wrong.

All those warm-blooded people out there, god, if Jimmy could just—

There was a small, rectangular window high up in his cell. For most, it was a humane consideration. For Jimmy, unholy terror rose with the sun. There was no rationalizing the sensation, other than it somehow made everything worse, like he would sure die if he let it touch him.

The cell’s bed was bolted to the wall, under the window, leaving a shadow on the floor. Jimmy hid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: recreational drug use, off-screen _minor_ character death, assault, mild gore/blood, police brutality
> 
> Also, I did the writerly thing and kept a line my poor betas told me didn't make sense. Paradise, not the Rock Club, is a gay bar in Cambridge. I don't know if it was still there in the seventies, but please refer back to the first sentence.


	2. 80

****Jimmy’s mugshot became something of a cultural phenomenon; a local kid, Harvard student, beloved son and brother, still sluggishly bleeding out against prison orange. Dying. His face showed it. It was not hard for a few opportunistic civil rights lawyers to exploit that sympathy.

After that dingy cell at MIT’s station, he spent a day or two in Massachusetts General, before being sent to Bridgewater State. They kept him in solitary. He was fed when someone official wanted to talk. He did not need much convincing to go along with his lawyers’ narrative. To live, with dignity.

In the seventies, there was a lot of mythology surrounding vampires. That they were nothing but hominical animals, bent on destroying society. Demons walking the streets to keep the righteous out of God’s domain. So deeply corrupt that they cried blood. The start of a new decade offered the people an opportunity to see one up close.

They gave him a transfusion before taking the stand. A whole pint, on top of what he got last week. Jimmy still asked, “Do I have to?”

“They need to see that you’re human,” his lawyer responded. Harvard alum. Rosy cheeks. Ten minutes earlier, Jimmy wouldn’t have been able to keep his head straight with her around. He still got hunger pangs so bad he blacked out.

Jimmy swallowed around nothing. “I don’t feel it.”

She gave him a look, sympathetic. “You are, and you deserve the rights that entails. Including a level of care you are not going to receive with your condition being considered a crime. We both know this. Help me prove it to everyone else.”

Then she threw him to wolves until he ran clear.

 

* * *

 

With the outcome of Commonwealth v. Vesey, Massachusetts became the third state in the United States of America to legalize vampirism.

As proof that the universe has some sort of humor, Jimmy was released from the hospital on the summer solstice. He and the other freed vampires were taken in by ill-prepared halfway houses. They couldn’t expect funding from the state with King at its head, nor at a federal level from Reagan.

It was rough, but it wasn’t like Jimmy had a home to go back to anymore. _Couldn’t,_ the way he was.

Lotte, one of the administrators, came from New York. Vampires had already developed a system there, one she aimed to duplicate in Boston. The process was slow-going. Jimmy got used the demographic change. Patience, Jimmy learned, was a tenant in vampiric philosophy. Men die and take their ideas with them. Time marched onward.

 

* * *

 

The blood came in discreet foil packages, laminated white. Jimmy’s grateful for the thin layer of denial it gave his main source of pleasure. Six ounces per serving, once a week.

Biology was never Jimmy’s strong suit. When they said it’d take years for his body to adjust to the changes, he believed them. Simple arithmetic, though, he could do.

No one in the house was overly chatty, but he knew the woman in the bed a few down from him, Kitty, used to be a nurse. He went to her one night, a hot one that made the next supply feel like it’d never come, and asked, “They aren’t feeding us enough, are they?”

She lied mostly nude over her sheets, staring at the ceiling. She hadn’t moved for nearly three days. Three near-empty gallon bottles of water lied next to the bed; fluid resuscitation. Jimmy understood why people thought they were dead, sometimes.

Kitty’s voice sounded dry when she said, accusatory, “Sick kids need it more than we do.”

“‘Course,” Jimmy replied. He wasn’t sure where they got what they did, honestly. The leftovers before they get tossed in the trash, presumably.

Kitty sighed, long and deep. “Low blood pressure can cause fatigue, nausea, and dizziness. Extended, severe hypotension leads to anxiety, clammy skin, a rapid heart rate, and death. For most people.”

The average adult male had ten pints of blood that got replenished every three months. Under no circumstances did Jimmy want to hurt anyone. He could not imagine how good being well-fed would be.

 

* * *

 

There comes a point when even monotony becomes monotonous. Year in, year out. Jimmy was bored. Jimmy was lonely. Jimmy was in pain. If Jimmy ever had any clue about what it meant to be alive, it corroded away in those years.

 

* * *

 

Time passed. Momentum built. Under Dukakis, Vampire Services took its first wobbling steps in Massachusetts. There were rumblings about taking the fight to Washington; centuries of stockpiled wealth would give you some weight to throw around, Jimmy supposed.

Before leaving, Lotte came to find him on the fire escape. There weren’t too many places to hide.

“You know, you shouldn’t be living like you’re immortal,” she told him.

Jimmy just looked at her. That landing was the closest he ever got to leaving the house. His neck was stiff, along with every other muscle in his body. Kitty had had the right idea. “Do I seem to be indulging in life right now?”

“Yes,” Lotte responded flatly, although she didn’t elaborate, then sighed. “Gerald wouldn’t—”

“Don’t,” Jimmy spat, eyes rolling, stomach cramping. Still.

After a minute of silence, Lotte said, “I apologize for the sentimentality. We were close for a very long time. It’s difficult to reconcile how I knew him with the things he did. It is horrible that you were not given a choice in this life, but it was not a condemnation. You are going to get better. Please keep in contact, when you’re up for it.”

When Lotte first came over, Boston was nothing more than a plot of land across the river. When Jimmy had asked, she revealed that no one knew exactly how old Gerald had been, but he’d been there to watch the Roman Empire fall. Time, measured in centuries. Millenia.

Earlier that week, Big Jim had died. Jimmy found out through the newspaper’s obituaries. Fifty-fucking-three years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: malnourishment, enter fantastic racism stage left, minor character death


	3. 90

****When the letter came in, it wasn’t even addressed to Jimmy. It had to be forwarded from the Massachusetts USVS Center.

_Dear whoever it may concern,_

_I am writing to enquire about the state of James Vesey. He used to go by Jimmy but I don’t know if that is still true. It has been nearly thirteen years since I last saw him. At the time, I was told you didn’t know how long it would be until he would be all right. In the envelope is a photo of me, my husband, and our five children, his nieces and nephews. If he is willing and able, I would like to get in contact with him._

_Thank you,_ _  
_ _Lisa Hayes, née Vesey_

The photo looked like a standard family portrait, a painfully familiar woman with an equally unfamiliar man surrounded by three young girls and a boy, all dressed in their Sunday best. Another young baby sat in Lisa’s lap. Jimmy stared at them for a long minute, then turned the photo over with a trembling hand. In the top corner was scribbled _Christmas ‘92._ Names were written in proximation of their positions: _Lisa, John, Genevieve, Eileen, Little Jimmy, Justine, Kevin._

Jimmy reread the letter, looked at photo, turned them over and over again. It wasn’t enough, after so long. He thought they’d never—

Malcolm jolted at how quickly Jimmy threw himself in motion. “Where’s the fire, man?”

Jimmy just shook his head, speechless, and went to borrow supplies from the front office.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm Brogdon was another convenient victim for vampire rights. Southern, from a family of lawyers. A rising star at University of Virginia. Had a lot of feelings about Magic vs. Bird.

Jimmy liked him. For all the shit Jimmy got in high school for being quiet, he’d always liked being part of a team. Malcolm got that.

Waiting for his letter to send and be responded to stirred up a level of anticipation Jimmy had not experienced in a long time.

 

* * *

 

Lisa wanted to meet in public at first, just her and Jimmy. It took time to coordinate. The commute into Boston wasn’t the easiest, with the sun making its way back under the horizon later and later. Still, he made it to some little coffee shop in Cambridge that Jimmy had taken her one time. It was a pretty popular place, but he hoped it was because she remembered.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw her, any worries that he might not recognise her evaporating in an instant, even with her short Princess-Diana bob. Lisa was a woman, now, a mother, but still his sister _._ Fuck, he’d been gone for so long.

Sliding into the seat across from her felt so overwhelming, he couldn’t even like of what to say other than, _“Lisa.”_

“Hi, Jimmy. How are you?” she greeted, casually, like they saw each other every day.

“Good, good,” Jimmy said, trying to match her tone and failing, “I missed you guys,” and then, “How are you? How’s Nolan?”

“Fine. Still up in Edmonton,” Lisa responded. She drank deep from her coffee—Jimmy remembered letting her have steal a sip when he was in high school, the way her face scrunched up—and continued, “I’d heard they had you all tucked away in some government commune up in Alaska.”

It made him pause. He’d never had to explain his living situation before, in public. All the humans he interacted with were professional types. He said, hesitantly, “There are a couple places. For, uh, rehabilitation.”

Lisa put down he cup. “But you were in New Hampshire,” she confirmed.

“Yeah. It’s actually pretty close to Mt. Washington?”

She eyed him for a second, then said, “We’ve vacationed up there before. Your location isn’t really advertised, is it?”

“No.” If someone accidentally came across their compound, for a lack of a better word, they would encounter a eight foot high stone wall, guarded by friendly security personnel who would gently but firmly send them right back the way they came. If they burned all the death threats made against everyone living in that building, they wouldn’t need to pay for central heating. “So, Hayes, huh? Like, with the Fitzgeralds and—”

“Yeah, them. It’s been good.”

The conversation trickled on, halting and tense, but it was _something._ Jimmy felt so grateful he was choking with it, but Lisa… Jimmy couldn’t read her at all anymore, and it cut deep in his belly. Was she scared? Nervous? Happy?

A bit before the hour mark, Lisa sat back and said, “You seem like you’re in better shape.”

“It’s a good day,” Jimmy confessed. They were coming more and more, stretching a little longer after each time he got to eat. Progress, like Lotte promised.

“Alright. Listen, it’s getting late. I’m sure you have to get back—’

“Oh, I’m—”

“—And I have to let the babysitter go home,” Lisa finished. She stood from the table, and Jimmy scrambled to follow. They lingered, awkwardly, before Lisa leaned in to hug him hesitantly. Jimmy slid his arms around her carefully, could have held on forever—

Except, their cheeks brushed, skin against skin. Lisa jerked and stepped back. “Oh,” she said, “you’re cold.”

Jimmy didn’t know how to answer that.

Lisa excused herself again, then disappeared into the night. He could feel eyes on him, and left not long after.

The hotel room he rented was insular, no windows, with a bed and an end table and a shitty little TV. Jimmy pondered over the bed at first, decided against it, and settled carefully on top of the comforter. His check-out time wasn’t for another twenty-two hours. He’d survive.

 

Summer dragged, long and silent.

 

* * *

 

The nineties were big on integration. Re-entering society. A big, governmental _get a job._

“What were you doing, before you got bit?” Jimmy asked.

Malcolm snorted. “Pre-law.”

“Oh, they’d love you for that.” Jimmy had been leaning towards business, before, like maybe he could’ve found a way back into hockey that way. Maybe taking over the local rink, at least, but that place was long gone and replaced by the Burbanks. Good people, if unlikely to ever hire Jimmy.

And that’s the problem, wasn’t it? Windows, everywhere. Long, suspicious glances. In Pennsylvania, someone was claiming religious freedom as their defense for murdering a vampire that happened to be in the same bar as them. The trial got a lot of air time. It was hotly debated.

 

* * *

 

The invitation came in winter, on a dark day nestled between holidays. Jimmy took the red line outbound, got off at Fields Corner and walked to a few blocks until he found a narrow Victorian that matched the address. He still hesitated before knocking, not sure which side they lived in, but after a minute Lisa to pulled open a door and called out, “You’re acting like a real creep right now, Jim.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the worst thing out right now,” he joked. It was a rough neighborhood. He could feel it at the back of his neck.

Jimmy tried not to think about how long it’d been since the last time he was in a home, with a family and clutter. The _smell._ It’s quiet for a house with five children, but Jimmy didn’t realize that until they rounded into the parlor and found everyone seated around a silent television, like some sort of convention. He recognized all of them—their photo was the only personal decor he had back at the house—but seeing them in person was so much more real.

Six pairs of eyes tracked him as he entered the room and Jimmy looked back, unable to focus, as Lisa repeated introductions, “So, these are my girls, Gen, Tina, Eileen, that’s Little Jimmy—”

“After Lisa’s father,” the lone man interjected. His eyes were hard, in a way Jimmy recognized.

Before Jimmy could say, _Yeah, of course, he was a good man,_ Lisa continued, “The rude lug over there would be my husband, John, and this is Baby Kevin.”

She took the toddler from couch with forced ease, and turned back to Jimmy. Big, blue eyes on a small, soft face. Jimmy’s heart felt lodged in his throat, just looking at him. “Hi,” he choked out.

Kevin just stared, as Lisa prompted, “Can you say hello to Uncle Jimmy?”

“Hello, Uncle Jimmy.” His speech wobbled and skipped sounds, like he hadn’t been talking for very long. Fucking adorable. “Uncle No?”

“Uncle Nolan isn’t going to be here until _next_ week,” Lisa corrected, voice as soft as Jimmy ever heard it, and, _fuck,_ Nolan. Jimmy still hadn’t heard from him. Maybe he could stick around until then, just to see.

Jimmy had been getting used to being around people again, but this felt different. He wondered if kids had gotten more intimidating or what, but he wasn’t sure what to with the four older Hayes children. They were old enough to know what he was. Didn’t know what to make of him or his sudden appearance. Kevin, at least, didn’t seem to care yet, unbothered when Lisa (briefly, vigilantly) placed him in Jimmy’s cool lap.

His hands were so _small._

All too soon, John started making noise about it being late, bedtimes, routine. He herded the kids upstairs, said with might be a sneer, “Give you some time alone with your brother.”

The house went quiet, and then Lisa said, “Well, that’s a first.”

 _A real charmer,_ Jimmy didn’t reply. “So, everyone still get together for the holidays?”

“We split time.” She didn’t elaborate.

Jimmy felt like he was fumbling, trying to find a grip against glass. They were family, it shouldn’t be this hard. He didn’t want to come all the way out here just to turned back around after so little time. It was worth it, but not enough. He scrambled a little, then asked, “So, nursing, right?”

“Yeah, nursing,” Lisa replied. She smiled a little, then said, “Took a little longer with the kids, but I got there. I’ve, uh, worked with a few people who have your condition.”

“Really? As coworkers or patients?”

“Both.”

Jimmy didn’t know why he was surprised. That’s what they were fighting for, right? Proper care and opportunity. It had to be a good thing, that Lisa had to know by now, medically. Got him into her house, at least.

Talk came easier that night. About Lisa’s job. Her time at Northeastern, playing soccer, before Gen. A little about John.

“But _Hayes,_ huh? Decided you weren’t as new wave as you thought?”

Jimmy’s joking, for the most part, but there’s a touch of ice when Lisa responded, “Vesey wasn’t an easy name to have for awhile.”

It hung in the air, guilt prickling over Jimmy’s skin. After a moment of silence, Jimmy said, “Listen, if there’s anything I can do—”

“What can you do, Jim?” Lisa cut in, sounding exasperated. “Not much, by the sounds of it.”

“It’s been hard,” Jimmy defended, but it cut deep, could feel some truth in it. Years spent in a daze while his sister ended up on the wrong side of Dorchester. “And I know there are people who are interested in… me. What happened. Biographers and 60 Minutes or Primetime or whoever the fuck.”

Lisa went silent for a long moment. “This isn’t something anybody needs to be more public. And we don’t need your…”

She fumbled, angry and trying to find the word, but Jimmy cut in to say, “I know. I sure as fuck don’t, either. Just—don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you. You’re still my sister. I love you more than anything.”

Lisa kept looking at him. Eventually, she asked. “Do you have email?”

_“What?”_


	4. 00

A lot of things changed, a lot stayed the same. It was a revelation for Jimmy, to watch his nieces and nephews grow up. He still only saw then a couple times a year, but—

He had no idea where Kevin came from. The baby of the family, but still more easy-going than Lisa ever was. Happy to cling to her side as his older siblings scatter, always throwing his arms around Jimmy while everyone else kept their polite distance. He guessed it helped, that Kevin had grown up with him around.

 

It took ice to get Little Jimmy to warm up to him, on a rare occasion where Jimmy was left alone while Lisa made supper and John was god knows where.

“You knew these guys?” he asked, with the sort of distrust in his voice only middle schoolers who just learned how to doubt can achieve.

“Sure,” Jimmy responded with a shrug. “The Mass guys, at least. Played against ‘em when we were kids, and I knew people at BU. How come you only believe that I’m that much older than you when it’s convenient, huh?”

Little Jimmy shrugged back, dismissively, and returned his attention to the TV, where Mike Eruzione’s actor is clearing that he plays for the United States of America. It’s a generous casting choice, if you asked Jimmy.

“That’s sick,” Kevin sighed, big blue eyes practically sparkling. “Did you play for BU?”

“Nah. I went to Harvard.”

Kevin made a face at that, and then asked, “Did you play for _Harvard?”_

“I, uh, stopped after high school. Bit of a late bloomer, for varsity.”

That got Little Jimmy’s attention again, who very unsubtly sized him up. “But you did play in high school. And you haven’t changed since then.”

“That’s not really how this works,” Jimmy protests, but Jim’s made up his mind, and Kevin’s excited about being included, and Jimmy’s about to get creamed by a pair of exceptionally talented tweens after two decades of not having played a real game of hockey.

 _Two decades._ When did that happen?

John had convinced their neighbor to let him put up a backyard rink, a shallow pond frozen over a blue tarp, lit up by a big white floodlight. It got a lot of use, especially during winter break. The boys had probably already been out of school for a week.

The ice felt brittle under Jimmy’s feet for the first few strides, in a pair of second-hand skates that he’d only been used a handful of times before. He took a few slow laps around the edges to get his legs pumping. The winter air slicked over his face, through his hair. It felt good. Still familiar.

Any peace he found in that moment was shattered when his nephews came barrelling out the backdoor, more geared up than not and seemingly prepared to use it.

“I’ll play goal,” Jimmy called.

“Youngest in net,” Little Jimmy responds immediately, with a gentle enough thwap on the back of Kevin’s legs.

Kevin still scowled and inhaled, ready for a fight, but Jimmy cut in to say, “Yeah, except for when there’s one person who’s twice the size as everyone else. Unfair advantage. Go.”

Little Jimmy grumbled for a few more seconds—Jimmy suspected that he was looking for an opportunity to beat someone twice his size, but it wasn’t going to be Jimmy—before they all fell into position.

Jimmy might as well have been a goddamn sieve. The boys made Jimmy feel slow. Tired. More like forty than nineteen. They were _good,_ that much was obvious, even then. They didn’t play dirty against each other, nicer than Jimmy was to Nolan sometimes, just—skill. Watching them lodged something high in Jimmy’s throat.

Maybe it was the sentimentality that made the next few moments so sharp, after.

Kevin tripped, chasing after the puck in the corner. Little Jimmy followed close behind. Kevin tripped over a missing chunk of ice, still twisting to get possession.Little Jimmy did the same.

A bright, hot scent cut through the night air. Familiar, by then. Of course it was. Jimmy breathed in, clenched his jaw. Watched Little Jimmy fall to his knees and hunch over his baby brother. “Oh, god, Kev, don’t— you’re alright, I’m _sorry—”_

Jimmy could feel the panic frizzing off of them, the iron hanging heavier. He breathed out, relaxing each muscle in his body, and skated closer. There wasn’t a pool, just mess, and two pale faces. Two sets of wide, blue eyes.

“He reached for the puck,” Little Jimmy said, as open as he’d ever been, over the last eight years. “I was trying to kick it away and he _reached_ for it—I didn’t mean to. He...”

Gently, Jimmy edged him out of the way. Pulled Kevin’s arm away from his chest. A steady stream of crimson strailed out of a nasty little gash. More a bad position than anything, Jimmy thought.

“He’ll be fine,” Jimmy said out loud, wrapping long fingers around his arm and squeezing, palm down on the cut. “Kevin, you’re fine, but we gotta get inside. Can you get up?”

He looked into Kevin’s eyes, who looked back at him, then at his arm, then Little Jimmy, and back. Around again. Paper white skin and a watery gleam building over his eyes as his mouth starts to tremble.

Alright. Fair enough. He was just a kid.

Jimmy tore off his skates, said to Little Jimmy, “Take care of the hockey shit, I’ll bring him in.” Little Jimmy just looked at him, mouth hanging open, so he pressed, _“Go._ It’s fine.”

Kevin was never a particularly lightweight child, especially not in his winter clothes, had mostly outgrown being carried anywhere years ago, but Jimmy got a steady enough hold to get him up and into the house, measuring each breath as Kevin radiated heat against him. It wasn’t the right time to truly appreciate that feeling, of someone solid and living in his arms, but it still struck him

Jimmy sat him on the counter, runs the kitchen sink hot. No clue where Lisa was. He started talking, trying to project some level-headedness. “Reaching for the puck, huh? Would’ve gotten you a stoppage in play, anyway.”

Kevin didn’t respond, but Jimmy kept at it, running Kevin’s arm under the water, gently dabbing at it with soap. The bleeding looked worse under the water, but he thought it was already slowing. Still deeper than was maybe ideal.

Jimmy stared consideringly, hummed, then sucked his cheeks in.

“Did you just hock a loogie in my _arm?”_ Kevin finally spoke. The tear tracks had mostly been wiped away, but his face was still red, even as it contorted with disbelief.

“Sh,” Jimmy hushed.

“Gross!”

“It’s not the same. Look, see—” Jimmy immediately wondered if the invitation was a bad idea, if Kevin would maybe pass out or something, but it was too late. They both watch as the wound stitched itself together, just a bit more neat and numb. Nothing miraculous. Better than just standing there.

Some sort of seal must have broken, Kevin convinced he’d live another day with his hand still attached, and he laughed. Jimmy smiled in response, as always.

Lisa would probably know if Kevin he actually needed stitches, when she got back from wherever she was, but Jimmy thought it’d be unlikely. He felt Kevin alone for a moment, now that he seemed more aware, told him to hold a towel against it until he could grab a bandage from the bathroom. It took a moment, since none of the Hayes’ were particularly dedicated to organization, but he found some thicker gauze and medical tape in the bathroom cupboard. When he returned to the kitchen, Kevin still looked pale, but better.

Jimmy heard the front door open, didn’t think much of it until he heard the steps freeze and Lisa’s voice ask, “What happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, just a little accident,” Jimmy said, continuing to lay a stripe of tape down over the top edge. Kevin returned a watery little smile when offered. It was fine. They were fine.

A hand wrapped around his shoulder and shoved him back. It was unexpected, and Jimmy didn’t fight it, stumbling back before turning towards Lisa, confused, surprised, but—

The innards of her purse lay scattered on the floor, dropped in a hurry so that she could hold a stake, white knuckles against mountain-ash.

Jimmy’s ears wrung. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Lisa wouldn’t—  

But there Lisa was, yelling, Jimmy thought, asking what he did to her son. His kid nephew. Like he would ever. Like he hadn’t spent the last however many years proving that to them, working to _better_ for them. And Lisa was ready to kill him.

Little Jimmy sprung practically out of nowhere it seemed, pulled back her arm and starting yelling, too. “Mom! He didn’t do anything, we were on the rink, Kevin feel, what are _doing?”_

Lisa’s eyes glanced away from Jimmy’s—the same eyes—for a moment, her posture loosening just a fraction. Jimmy didn’t stick around to see what that meant.

His heart felt like it’d relocated to his head, a pounding throb that radiated through his body, countered only by the stand-in black hole suck in the middle of his chest. He hadn’t forgotten what heartbreak felt like, what it meant to be a monster, but it’d been awhile since he’d been reminded.

Stupid. Predatory. Treacherous. Repulsive. Walking around Dorchester with a schoolboy’s blood on his jacket.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy’s sick of this shit. Sick of the compound. Sick of moonlight. Sick of being alone all the goddamn time.

“I mean, not completely, but,” Jimmy hastened to say, eyes cutting towards Malcolm, “you know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, Jim, I got you,” Malcolm responded, eyes soft.

 

* * *

 

Turned out, there were enough vampires into hockey within the Northeast to make up a two-team beer league. A fair few of them seem bored enough to just be looking for something to try, and Jimmy knew it was only a matter of time before blood league overcame traditional terminology, but. Jimmy liked it. He was _proud_ of it.

 

They ended up in and around New York City a lot. Good infrastructure, fairly centralized. Made it harder to avoid Lotte, but even that got less daunting over the years, as Jimmy convinced her that he’s settling into the lifestyle well enough. Even turned out to be fairly convenient; Jimmy didn’t think he’d be able to afford her legal fees, if it weren’t for their unifying feature.

Still, it was a shock for her to show up at the rink one day, dressed casually and trailed by a young vampire. Like, young as in about Jimmy’s age, if not younger, and recently turned. Jimmy hadn’t met any since he was fresh himself, but he knew. Could smell it, kind of, but the unnatural awkwardness was there, too, a tall, broad-shouldered frame slouching weakly under an oversized **I ♥ NYC** sweatshirt, like she would collapse into herself given the physical possibility.

Lotte stared him down until Jimmy excused himself, not that he needed the extra push.

“Hello, Jimmy,” she said.

 _“Hello,_ Ms. de Jong,” Jimmy drawled in response, mostly to see if he could draw a reaction out of the other girl’s blue face.

She did smile, briefly, a twitch in the corner of her lips, and said, “You look good out there.”

Jimmy scoffed, and asked the other girl, “You play? Because I know she doesn’t usually bother with this sort of stuff.”

Lotte raises a shoulder in a shrug as she responded, “Uh, no, not really. I mean, I can skate but—mostly, I used to swim a lot, before I changed. But it’s been a year, and I’m still… you know. It’s the longest I’d gone my whole life.”

“A year?” Jimmy asked, incredulous, looking her up and down once. “Fuck, I don’t think I was recognizable as a person after a year.”

Although, things had changed, as promised. A lot of things were better now. More blood in circulation. Better blood. He could see how that’d have made the beginning years easier.

“I thought that having other… athletic types would help give her a better idea how to transition, since this is not something that ever particularly bothered me,” Lotte said, face carefully free from any negative feelings she may have about spending too much of your immortal life on sports.

“Like a play date?” the girl asked.

“Exactly like a play date, yes,” Lotte replied, and that time Jimmy laughed.

The girl smiled again, too, and continued, “I’m Katie, by the way. Ledecky.”

 

Katie’s turning was a mutual decision. A botched, illegal one, that left another orphan in Maryland for Lotte to scoop up, but Jimmy didn’t begrudge her that.

Still, he saw why the legal process was the way it was, sometimes, in the set of her jaw.

 

* * *

 

Enriched blood became a thing around then. Something about suspended, broken down molecules being easier to absorb, at lower rates. Jimmy wasn’t a chemist, didn’t really understand it. None of the names on it were familiar, either, so it was a human creation, too, most likely.

Jimmy didn’t really trust it, until he saw Katie slamming it down. She looked good. Healthy. Bright eyed. Warm.

It came in the same little white pouches as regular. The aftertaste was a little rough, at first, but it got better.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it’s the solo sport mentality, but Katie was the first of them to start training seriously. Hours a day, every day, in the shitty recreational pool of Lotte’s apartment building.

“But why, though?” Jimmy had to ask. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Myself,” she replied, simply.

 

It was a stupid question, like Jimmy didn’t spend every hour from sunset to sunrise scouring the city for pick-up games. Like he couldn’t see the same restlessness in Malcolm right before he disappeared for weeks. Translating small appliance manuals paid the bills, but it didn’t—

Jimmy wasn’t sure how much more there was for him out there, but he wanted it.

 

* * *

 

An email from a Nobles address showed up in Jimmy’s inbox.

_Hi Uncle Jimmy,_

_This is kind of a weird email to send so I’ll just be straight forward. I’m sorry for what happened last time you visited. It shouldn’t have happened and I still can’t believe it did._

_I was an @sshole when I was a kid and you didn’t do anything to deserve any of it. It’s a messed up situation. I’m really really sorry._

_I know we weren’t as close but Kevin really misses you. If you don’t want to bother with us anymore I understand and respect that but if you want he still wants to know you._

_Sincerely,_

_Little Jimmy Hayes_

He reread it dozens of times, although it’s short enough that he had it memorized after the first few times. Jimmy had known Little Jimmy was in high school, getting older.

_Nobles._

They’d need guidance from that, Jimmy decided, weakly.

 

* * *

 

Katie’s brother, as it turned out, worked for Harvard. “He really wants to meet you next time he comes to visit,” Katie said one afternoon, both of them running a little dry and too wired to sleep. It lended itself to lying in bed catching up on missed cultural touchstones, until their next allocation came in.

Jimmy grunted in vague agreement, and didn’t think much of it.

That is, not until Michael Ledecky was sitting in front of him in a nicer, mutually agreeable bar and grill Katie wanted to take them out to, shorter and closer to their age than expected, wearing a button down and a sportcoat and telling him, “I’m not sure if you know, but Harvard has had you on a leave of absence for the last… however long.”

“Really? Why—huh,” Jimmy had responded. He didn’t pick up the line at first; did he have paperwork to file before they could drop him? Fees to pay?

Michael nodded, a little frantically. “I know you haven’t been back in awhile, or at least not in an official capacity, but you’ve really made such an impact on Harvard’s history, we’re really proud to have you as alum—or, well,” he huffed, before continuing, “What I’m trying to say is, Harvard wants me to invite you back. _We_ want you back. If that’s something you’re interested in.”

 _“Really?_ That’s— _huh.”_ The mind boggled. Going back to school for, what? He sure as fuck wasn’t going back for econ, but—  

“Yeah, I was supposed to give you this whole spiel about, you know, academic excellence and networks and everything, but it feels weird pitching to my little sister’s friend who already knows.” Michael shrugs and smiles easily, in the way Katie’s been getting back recently. “The interesting bit I do have for you is, we’d like to offer you an athletic scholarship.”

_“What?”_

“In hockey, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

“That’s—man, I’m sorry, but that’s insane. I haven’t played competitively in decades.” The words barely even penetrated, little more than nonsense. The first part, he got, but this—

“You are competitive,” Michael insists. “Or, well, listen, I’m a swimmer, I swam. But I’ve seen the tape, and I know the coaches wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t see good in you, or didn’t have a plan.”

Jimmy shook his head in denial. How are there tapes? When did he get scouted? He’s talked shop with some of those types, but—

“Michael, you seem like a nice guy, the words you are saying to me are literally impossible.”

Michael put his hands up, then reached for his wallet. “Hey, it’s not my job to convince you, they just figured I had a good point of entry; you’re a hard guy to pin down, apparently. Just, here, take these guys’ numbers. They’ll be able to talk you through anything. Now, uh, do either of you know anyone who’s had the filet?”

 

Way back in Belmont Hill, Jimmy’s coach had loved talking about sports and politics. It’d mostly been in their history class, one Jimmy had with Matt, so he didn’t absorb it was well as he could have, but the idea stuck. He talked about the Olympics a lot, in Berlin and Mexico City and Munich. Jimmy could imagine what he’d have to say about Soviet hockey, in the years after Jimmy left.

Point being, he knew what sports could be, other than a couple kids on a pond. That American hockey wasn’t in a place to be picky, not yet, would take a jump start from anywhere.

Jimmy knew Malcolm was looking at going back to UVA for his masters, and that he would be good enough play there, too. That it wasn’t out of the question for him. The idea was bizarre, impossible, as far as Jimmy could tell, but if Harvard actually found a way… why not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: accidental harm to a child, blood, purposeful attempted assault, continued diet complications


	5. 10

On June 23rd, 2012, it’s a joke when Nashville drafts Jimmy. The third round is too early to be burning picks. No one— _no one_ —thinks he’s going to play a single game for them.

 

* * *

 

Harvard sends Jimmy back to the freshman dorms, although this time he gets a single, its lone window discretely bricked over. He moves in on a summer night, and there aren’t too many people around. A proctor gives him one of several forceful welcomings, assuring him that they, the housing department, and Harvard University are committed to making him feel as comfortable as possible.

Jimmy feels both very young and very, very old. He thinks, technically, that he’s a couple decades older than some of the people getting him ready for his first day of school in thirty-three years.

The school has a hematologist on campus, one that’s intent on measuring his metabolism and blood pressure and rate of circulation and respiratory fitness before nailing down his diet. It’s still kind of bizarre to Jimmy that anyone cares that much instead of just letting him work it out himself. The enriched blood has given way to a fully synthetic blend. It’s easy to regulate, saves lives, and tastes suspiciously like iron scrap mixed in with water.

Usually, Jimmy meets her in the athlete’s fitness center, and, before one of these sessions, he runs into his teammates. They’re well aware of each other by now, but—

“Hey, you went to Belmont, right?” one of them asks, shorter with brown hair and steady green eyes. A local guy, maybe.

“Uh, yeah?”

 _“Highly_ unfortunate, dude,” he says, but he’s smiling, like he’s expecting Jimmy to pick up on the joke.

Jimmy blinks, then says, “So Seb’s standards really haven’t gotten any higher, huh?”

It’s not impressive, but everyone laughs easily enough. They talk for another few minutes. Jimmy braces for it, but no one blinks when he says what’s up to. He waters it down anyway.

High school was so fucking long ago.

 

Jimmy’s never liked starting on a new team. Even back when he really was like everyone else, the transition from strangers to trusting a guy with his life didn’t come naturally. It’s part of the reason why he always wanted to play with Matt, or some of the other townies. The familiarity aspect. The only familiar face going into the Crimson is little Teddy Donato, who now older and rounder and known as Heavy D. He is also Jimmy’s head coach.

It’s awkward. He’s used to it now, but it’s so fucking awkward, like a skipping stone that never touches the same water twice before sinking altogether.

Outside the thin walls of Jimmy’s dorm room, someone is stomping up the stairs, complaining loudly about the exam they just took, heart still jumping from the nerves, until they fade away. Quiet seeps back into the room, peaceful and easy.

The jolt of shame makes Jimmy wince. He hates being like this, a mopey stereotype of a vampire, like _integration_ isn’t the whole reason anyone let him back on campus in the first place. It’s not like he doesn’t have his own exams to complain about, a team to bother, a whole fucking city that he knows like the back of his hand. He could walk right out the front door and keep going until he found a bored someone, a bar, a club, a fucking library, just to not be alone.

Weighed down by the darkness and despair, Jimmy sinks deeper into his bed, pulls out his phone, and, after a moment of contemplation, sends a casual but clever tweet out into the universe.

 

Okay, Jimmy has a good start to his NCAA career. A really good one. Good enough to get a call about World Juniors. He is, after all, eternally under twenty.

Jimmy gets the distinct feeling he’s getting away with something that will immediately get corrected, but being a trailblazer has a few perks, he guesses.

Another one of those perks certainty comes around housing season, a little before Jimmy has to leave for Russia. _Housing,_ even. A couple of guys are sitting in a common room, one with a lot of big windows but late enough for Jimmy to be with them, the sun long tucked away. It’s not like they have to wait too late in a Boston winter.

“Dude, what do you think you’re accomplishing with all this research? It’s all randomized,” Peter’s asking, looking up from the algebra program on his laptop. It gives Jimmy headaches just looking over his shoulder.

Kyle glances up, sour-faced, and says, “What, you’re not curious?”

There’s a small chorus of no’s, with Jimmy adding, “I already know I’m in Adams.”

Four sets of eyes swivel towards him. He says, defensively, “What? Every vampire on campus lives in Randolph. Fun fact.”

“Economic,” Brayden acknowledges. It’s true; no one likes renovating historic buildings to let _less_ light in.

“And you, what, weren’t planning on telling your blocking buddies?” Desmond asks, lobbing a pen at Jimmy’s head from his position on the floor, only lifting his for a moment to make a judgmental face.

Jimmy hasn’t even thought about that. Feels corny for the warmth in his chest. Says, “Fuck you guys, you’re just using me for to get on the Gold Cost.” He gets booed and earns a few projectiles of his own.

 

* * *

 

In Russia, Rocco Grimaldi refuses to room with Jimmy.

He knows pairing up two guys who might not get along is something coaches do sometimes to force common ground. It’s fine, Jimmy’s long used to it. They even manage to coexist peacefully through most of the round robin, until Jimmy gets too casual, accidentally brushes against Rocco while they’re moving past each other, and Rocco _freezes._

 

“Did he really not know? He was talking shit the entire camp, does he just do that casually?” Jimmy asks once he’s holed up in the room with two Jo(h)ns. There’s some debate, he thinks, over whether he even needs a bed.

Johnny makes a noncommittal noise, and says, “I don’t get how that’s possible—no offense. Your whole thing is kinda a big deal.”

“You just think that because you’re east coast,” Jimmy counters. “And, like, Kevin.”

Johnny makes another vague voice as J.T. voices, “Rocco’s a little bitch,” before wincing. “I mean, we’d played together for awhile, and he’s always been, like, not great at keeping not-hockey things out of hockey. And, like, who doesn’t even Google their teammates before these things?”

“You’re a fucking creep, Millsy.” Jimmy likes him.

 

 

 

_Gold._

 

* * *

 

Kevin texts him after the Beanpot. Jimmy responses with a quick, _Fuck you,_ before a familiar hollar drags his attention back to crowd around him. Some finals club, Jimmy isn’t even sure which. There’s a guy giving him a knowing look, just drunk enough for this to work, maybe.

 

A year later, when Kevin texts, **What if I dont want to play for Chi?** Jimmy sends, _Then don’t_

 

At the end of junior year, Coach D calls Jimmy into his office. Jimmy’s not sure what he’s expecting—some Old Boston talk, reminders on what to work on over the summer, maybe they’d caught that his blood profile was off—but it definitely isn’t captaincy.

Jimmy asks, “Are you _sure?”_

“People look up to you, Jim,” Ted respondes. “And I’m not saying that as a guy who knew you way back when. The guys on the team respect you, I’ve seen how you work with them. You’re a damn good player. Take responsibility for that.”

And this time it’s Jimmy who asks, _What if I do this for real?_ Kevin says, **Thatd be SICK do it**

 

Katie finishes up her GED. She is going to be an _Olympian._

It’s either very late or very early when she calls Jimmy, sniffling. “I always wanted to go to Stanford.”

“Then why aren’t you going to Stanford?” Jimmy responds. He’s distracted, ostensibly writing a history paper but really thinking about a boy in his ethical reasoning class who always wears these deep v-ed shirts, if he does it on purpose and if he’s going to sit next to Jimmy again, which is probably why he misses the obvious answer.

“Their pool is outside.”

Jimmy breathes in. “UMich is a damn good school, Ducky. You’re going to love it. Don’t get caught up on everything else, it’s too late for that.”

 

 

There have been vampires in the NHL. Kariya, Jagr, Karlsson—the kind of guys you make exceptions for. Jimmy is just… Jimmy. But he thinks, maybe, if he could, he would.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for Jimmy to come back to New York. There are people there, and still more vampires than anywhere else. He doesn’t matter here.

 

The Rangers set him up in _the Ritz,_ again with the assurance that anything, anything at all that he needs, they will find. Kevin’s in his room a lot; he has his own apartment, with the sort of wide windows, natural-light-and-expansive-views most people want when they’re making the kind of money they are.

“What are you looking at cars for?” Kevin asks, peering over Jimmy’s shoulder at his dinner table turned desk. “No one drives in New York.”

Jimmy elbows him back, mumbles, clears his throat, and says, “Have to get to practice somehow.”

“Yeah, dude, carpooling. Come on, I definitely told you this,” Kevin responds.

“Yeah, but like…” Jimmy trails off, and when Kevin doesn’t drop the expectant look off his face, Jimmy sighs and says, “I need tinted windows.”

“Oh, pfft. Don’t worry, we got you. Now chill out and watch the Pats game with me.”

Jimmy bookmarks the few he was looking at, then makes his way over the couch, dropping just close enough to feel the heat coming off of Kevin.

 

 

Sure enough, when someone’s Escalade pulls into the hotel’s garage the next morning, it has glass tinted as dark as New York state allows.

 

 

Jimmy meets Brady during training camp. He knew _of_ him before, through the various other threads of familiarity running through hockey, but—

It’s different in person.

They’ll be to the side during a scrimmage, and Brady’s broad face would be flushed pink and shiny, his tongue poking his mouth guard out of the way, lips holding it to the side of his mouth as he asks, “You know Mike Reilly, right? From Juniors?”

His eyes are so _nice._

Jimmy’s tongue feels fat and stupid.

 

 

Brady turns out to be near-impossible to avoid, starting with him being Jimmy’s teammate and ending with him being too friendly to make distance feasible or desirable, with an interim of him and Kevin apparently being good buddies. They go out to eat frequently and no one makes a deal out of Jimmy just drinking water.

It doesn’t take long for Kevin and Brady to start showing up at Jimmy’s door. The three of them watch movies or games or fire up Jimmy’s Xbox. _DOOM_ is out again, along with _Wolfenstein,_ to go with the new Star Wars coming out and the mountain of vinyl records that Amazon keeps suggesting Jimmy buy, like it isn’t hard enough just to rebuild his original collection. It’s a weird feeling, but Jimmy thinks he likes it.

“Jesus christ, how are you so fucking good at this?” Kevin yells, shoving at Jimmy’s shoulder, like that’d throw him off. It reminds Jimmy of him and Nolan, when they were kids over a single Atari controller. Didn’t work then, either.

“I’ve been playing this since you were still shitting yourself,” Jimmy tells him.

“So, what, last week?” Brady chirps, and that make Jimmy laugh loud and ugly until he cries.

 

 

The Ritz is nice—an understatement—but no one wants to staying a hotel for too long. Especially once you’re up.

Kevin’s still locked into his rent agreement. Maybe that’s why Brady comes to Jimmy and asks if they want to get an apartment together, and it’s so easy to just agree. Jimmy knows he doesn’t exactly function at his best when he’s left alone for too long, and Brady is just so… vital. The kind of person who’s good to be around, whatever kind of person you are.

“We just can’t look Tuesday,” Jimmy says.

“Why?”

“He’s got mandatory coven meetings on Tuesdays,” Kevin interjects, because he’s incredibly jealous of their plans and inserts himself into everything in the worst way possible.

“It’s not a _coven,”_ Jimmy argues, glances sharpy to Brady. “And it’s not mandatory. It’s, like, you know. More of a union?”

Brady shrugs easily and emails the agency back, sprawled in his usual spot, hip almost touching Jimmy’s toes.

 

 

The agency that finds a nice apartment in Chelsea, with big windows overlooking a soccer field. Jimmy can tell Brady really likes it, even as he straightens and says to Jimmy, “Wait, we can’t—”

“It’s fine. I can get some curtains or something, no biggie,” Jimmy interrupts. It’s not like he could ask Brady to live in a cave with him or something. Sunlight’s something you end up missing.

 

 

They get back even later than expected after a road trip, and their first night in their new place turns out more like a crash landing than a celebration. Jimmy’s sore, from playing and the pressure changes of flying messing with his system, and the only thing he wants to do is lie down for the rest of time, the vague hint of New York night sky stained purple outside his window.

Except, that can’t be right.

Jimmy drags himself upright again. There’s nothing above his windows to be pulled down, no hooks for anything to be hung, nothing lying on his floor.

His phone buzzes: **I think your shades are in my room**

Indeed, they are.

Jimmy stares from where he’s leaning against Brady’s dresser, his entire body feeling so, so heavy, like will alone will transport the shades to where they need to be. When that fails, he says, “Well, guess I’ll see if I can get a room back to the hotel.”

It’s not surprising when Brady says, “What? Nah, dude, just—chill in here, until we can get somebody back out,” because in the months Jimmy has known Brady, he has proven himself over and over to just be a relentlessly pleasant and caring person. Bue he’s still human.

So it is surprising when he insists, until Jimmy feels like Brady would be the one put out, if Jimmy left.

Brady radiates heat when he sleeps, breathing deep and easy and loud. Jimmy holds himself very still at the edge of the mattress, and Brady’s sleeping form is constantly grateful for the extra space.. In the time it takes for him to fall asleep, Brady’s foot tucked up against his shin, Jimmy worries many, many times that rooming together is a mistake.

 

“Is it bad that I didn’t know you could sleep before?” Brady asks the next morning. He has a longer morning routine, what with the needing to shower and brush his teeth and style his already-short hair. Jimmy maybe shouldn’t be overstaying his welcome in Brady’s bed, watching him try to navigate with his phone’s flashlight, but he’s feeling warm and lazy, and it’s not like he needs to do much, so Jimmy stays.

“You can just turn on a light, it’s fine. And it depends. Well—” Jimmy backtracks, thinking of how weird it’d sound if he just chose to lie next to Brady for the entire night. “Sleep isn’t really the same, and even that only really happens when I’m real tired. Last night I was out.”

The lights came on, and for one, seering second Jimmy regrets not making Brady operate in the dark. Jimmy groans and rubs at his eyes. When his vision comes back, it’s to Brady laughing at him, hair still sticking out, clothes ruffled from sleep.

Something twists hard in Jimmy’s chest. He squeezes his eyes shut again, throws an arm over them, pressing hard enough for light to reappear behind his eyelids, and does some deep breathing exercises. One night in the room already smells like Brady. Christ.

Jimmy startles when a warm—hot—hand slaps onto his chest and shakes. “Alright, you don’t have to prove your point. Car’s gonna be here in half an hour.”

 

* * *

 

Kevin, of course, is a nightmare.

“So, how do you like living with Brady?” he asks, two days into the whole affair. He grins menacingly, tucks his chin, and says, “I heard you had a romantic first night.”

“I don’t know how or why you would have heard that,” Jimmy says blandly. In reality, Kevin knew because Brady told everyone in the locker room, and Jimmy went along with it, because it was funny and it would be weird to make a thing of it after all that. One of the PR people had gotten a worrisome glint in their eye after hearing about, and Jimmy’s more worried about that than whatever game Kevin is playing. “It’s been fine. Good. We’ve worked shit out.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s been fine.”

_Nightmare._

Jimmy doesn’t know why he bothers.

 

* * *

 

Living with Brady is almost too easy. Jimmy, by nature, is an easy person to live with, if you can stomach it. Brady, apparently, lived with six other dudes in college, and considers their current situation a major upgrade, even with the small supply of blood bags tucked in a bottom drawer of their barely-used fridge.

Neither of them are in the habit of living alone, really. Brady’s chatty, likes bouncing things off Jimmy, having someone else around to hear his critique of night-time soap opera he put on, arguing over who should go pick up the take-out or a new package of garbage bags or whatever, even though Jimmy never uses that stuff anyway.

Jimmy likes being the guy who’s around, even when that means barely being able to watch Brady put on an elaborate show proving, that, yes, he does know all the word to this One Direction song, head tipped back, long, thick neck bent, _would he say he's in L-O-V-E, well, if it was me, then I would, would he hold you when you're feeling low, baby you should know that I would—_  

“I met one of them once,” Jimmy blurts out, just to make it stop. He can’t really blush anymore, but his face feels tight and awkward in the same way.

It works, but almost too effectively, because suddenly Brady is paying too much attention. “Which one?” he asks, quick. “Was it Harry?”

Jimmy blinks. “Uh, yeah, I think? He was friends with this one vampire in London, and—”

“Was it Grimmy?” Brady demands. He’s completely facing towards Jimmy now, intent, and Jimmy is pretty sure this was a mistake.

“I mean, yeah, but—how do you know Nick?” Jimmy asks. Brady can still blush, quite fully.

“He’s a very successful radio host!”

“In _London._ England. I only know him through, you know, vampire stuff,” Jimmy says.

Brady just looks for another long moment, biting his lip before saying, “Can I ask you something?”

Jimmy grunts.

“Are they together?” Brady blurts. “I know that’s, like, not like something you’re supposed to ask, but…"

Jimmy considers for a long moment. It’s really not something to gossip about, Jimmy knows, but something in Brady’s face makes Jimmy want to open his mouth and let anything Brady wants pour out. And Brady should get it. They hardly matter in the grand scheme of New York, but they’re still out there. People write about them and their friends of newspapers that more people than Jimmy even wants to think about read.

“They’re… no. I don’t know. They’re something.” Jimmy pauses, considers how to phrase the next bit, how Brady will respond. “He’s really into the whole, like, vampire scene. _Really_ into it.”

Brady takes a deep breath before asking. “Jimmy. _Jimmy._ Did you sleep with Harry Edward Styles?”

A nervous bubble pops out of Jimmy’s mouth as laughter. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by thinking about that whole fiasco, Brady sitting so close. His heart is racing a little. He tries to bail, rolling further down the couch, but Brady grabs onto him, wrestles him into place and pins him down. “Jimmy! You cannot just dangle that sort of information!”

It doesn’t help him stop laughing, and it’s a lot of skin-on-skin, even through all their clothes. He has to focus, hard, to say, “I didn’t! But I think he wanted to.”

“And you didn’t? Jimmy.” Brady groans and shakes him. “Even if you’re not into it, just for the experience, you _gotta._ And you wasted it.”

“I’m not… _not_ —it wasn’t that. People can be really weird about the vampire stuff. And I don’t think he was, totally, but he could have been, and. That’s what I’m not into.”

It all feels horrifically awkward coming out of his mouth, overly sensitized to Brady touching him, casually pressing against him while he talked about his sex life, or feeding. Would Brady have gone through with it? Just for the _experience?_

Does he even know what he’s talking about?Brady gives off so, so much heat. Jimmy feels like he has sand in his veins.

 

 

Jimmy can’t stop thinking about it. All the time.

 

 

“Do you want to go to the Nets game with me?” Jimmy tugs the front of his sweatshirt, then his ear, before trying again. “I mean, I know a guy who plays for the Bucks and he offered some tickets. If you’re interested. I know Minnie and Wisco have a complicated relationship, but—”

“Yeah, sure, sounds cool,” Brady says, cutting Jimmy off before he can really go downhill. He’s sprawled out across his usual spot on the shittiest couch in America, slouched to where his shirt is rucked up just enough for there to be a casual stretch of skin between it and Brady’s sweats. Jimmy feels like he’s dying a little when Brady continues, “Who else is coming?”

“Uh. I don’t know. I’d have to check how many tickets there are—”

He ends up roping in Kevin and Mats in, too, last minute. It’s cool. They’re a cool team.

Jimmy has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

 

 

Malcolm takes one look at him after the game and asks, “So...?”

Jimmy groans and looks skyward. _“No.”_

He snorts, and says, “Man, I’m going to be straight with you, it is really obvious sometimes that you’re stuck at nineteen.”

“I’m not,” Jimmy insists, before diverting the conversation to safer waters.

 

 

Kevin has apparently been sitting on a small collection of Jimmy’s things. Some records previously thought long-gone. T-shirts that have crossed into vintage since Jimmy last wore them. Photos, orange and grainy from age.

Jimmy can barely glance over them. Brady is much more interested. They radiate around him as he digs through the collection, fingers careful. “Oh my god, is that—”

“Yeah, somebody used to be the big guy around town,” Kevin says, boastful. Like he knows from anything past second-hand, who even knows from where, since there was no way Jimmy or anyone else in their family told him.

Brady holds up a photo and looks back and forth between it and Jimmy, squinting. “The _hair.”_

“I hate this,” Jimmy announces before leaving the room.

 

* * *

 

It’s just—  

Jimmy needs to get over himself, because there are a thousand little ways that makes being around Brady _nice,_ but he’s still just a person, a _young_ person, and there are a million more reasons why Jimmy needs to remember what and who he is. That doesn’t mean they can’t be friends or roommates, but Jimmy doesn’t—

Even with how much things and people have changed, everything he’s known leaves him stiff with guilt. He does want all those things he shouldn’t. Living with Brady’s been dangerous, made him imagine a million times what it’d be like if Brady wasn’t heavy-eyed and drained from an early morning or a hard practice, but if Jimmy laid him out, felt his burning heat beneath his hands, his mouth—

Maybe people were right about Jimmy. He doesn’t have to prove it.

 

* * *

 

They’re in Minnesota, and Brady is understandably excited. A lot of his family’s going to be there, a lot of his friends. And Jimmy’s excited for him, too, except—

“I have been in the Twin Cities before,” Jimmy says. “Many times, in fact.”

Brady stares at him for a moment, considering, and then responds, “There are a lot of  vampires here, aren’t there?”

“More than most places,” Jimmy hedges. Most places have zero, to be fair.

“D’you know why?”

He sounds genuinely curious, instead of the hostile Jimmy usually expects with that line of questioning, so he answers, “I dunno, the skyway? Pretty much any sort of enclosed way of get around makes our lives easier, and then once there’s a few of us in one place—” he shrugs. “We can hide all day anywhere, but it’s easier to, uh, cross the streams, like this.”

Brady nods along, then opens his mouth to say, “Back in school, I took this intro to ethics class, and we had this section that basically boiled down how things that are built with, like, accessibility in mind just work better in general, for everyone.”

The idea hangs there, and Jimmy nods, then Brady nods, before going back to talking about the state fair.

Later, after the game, Jimmy meets the rest of the Skjei family. It’s his other brother who jumps up first, smiles wide and predatory, and says, “So this is the infamous Jimmy.”

“Am I infamous?” Jimmy laughs, even though he knows the answer, and it makes him want to turn back around and hide. He doesn’t, though, because he knows this is something Brady’s been excited about, and it’s worth it once Ramsey’s target becomes clear as he says, “To anyone who’s had to talk to Brady in the last year, you are,” and then he pitches his voice to something Jimmy images Brady hasn’t sounded like since he was nine, and says, “‘Oh my god, today Jimmy asked what day it is—’”

Brady is, actually, the larger of the two brothers, and as they distract each other, someone Jimmy can only assume is Brady’s mom—and it has to be, they look so similar—startles him by pulling him into a _hug,_ with warm, human arms going up and around his shoulders, face brushing against his chest, and saying, “We’re just happy Brady has you boys. Is Kevin coming out, too?”

Jimmy’s not even sure Brady’s mom is actually older than him, but he still feels flustered, from the unexpected contact at trying to look good in front a friend’s parents. “Uh, yeah, he should be right behind us.”

 

 

When the team stops in Edmonton, Jimmy meets Nolan in a sort of nice, generic coffee shop. The talk is stilted. When Jimmy asks what happened to his missing records, Nolan grits his jaw and promises to mail them back to New York. Jimmy tells him to keep them.

“Well, I guess you’ll get them back one way or another, eh?” Nolan says.

Back at the hotel, Jimmy goes straight to Kevin’s room. He can barely speak. Kevin fills the void.

 

 

There’s a funny video on YouTube, and Jimmy could just send the link, but a part of him kind of wants to watch Brady watch it. See what parts makes him throw his head back and his eyes crinkle. It’s only a few minutes until the last of the sunlight should drain from their living room, so he waits until his phone beeps, and Jimmy throws open his door, starts saying, “Dude—”

“Jesus, we cannot live here next year,” Brady cuts him off, sprawled over his spot on the couch. “Do you seriously have a timer set for sundown?”

“Uh. It’s an app.” Jimmy waves his phone for emphasis, but Brady’s face makes him suspect that wasn’t the point.

 _“Dude._ We can’t stay somewhere where you can’t leave your room for half the day.”

It takes a minute for Jimmy to process, put all the parts together the way they are instead of just what he wants to hear. Still, he asks again, “... we?”

“Well, yeah.” Brady blinks, and says, “Well, if you want. I like living together, but if you—”

“No,” Jimmy interrupts. “No, yeah, it’s been cool. Me, too.”

 

* * *

 

The season ends, short of where anyone wants. It sucks. It really fucking does.

 

* * *

 

“It’s bullshit how they’re treating Jagr,” Kevin announces, apropos of nothing. They’re on their way back to Kevin’s summer apartment, after their usual evening workouts. It’s more for Jimmy’s benefit than anything, so he appreciates the company, even if it means conversations like this.

“Uh,” Jimmy responds. He’s heard the rumblings, of course. That Jagr’s played long enough, that his continued presence devalues the efforts of human players, if his accomplishments even mean anything, the way he is—

“I’m just saying, no one was talking about kicking fuckin’ Gretzky out of the league for making everyone else look like an asshole. And it’s not like Howe didn’t play longer, even, and _he_ was human.”

“Sure,” Jimmy says.

Kevin sighs, jerks his head to the side like he wants to crack his neck, and says, “My parents are getting divorced.”

“Oh. That’s—I’m sorry.” Jimmy doesn’t know what else he could say. He hasn’t seen either of them, since.

“It’s a long time coming. Should’ve happened way back, probably. They’d never been good together.” Irritation is practically radiating off of him. Jimmy doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He loves Kevin more than just about anything, but insight has never been his forte. “It’s like—Eileen has a couple kids now, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, “I know.”

Kevin, mercilessly, barrels forward. “I cannot fucking imagine not being allowed to know those kids. I _love_ them, you know? And you—the shit we’ve put you through—you know that it’s fucked up, right?”

“Sure,” Jimmy responds.

Kevin’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he continues, “I’m serious, Jim. You’re a good guy. I was damn lucky to have you around and—”

“Alright, jesus,” Jimmy cuts in, feeling overpressured and embarrassed. Reaffirmation was always his least favorite part of therapy, or _thoughtful conversations,_ whatever Lotte wanted to call it. “You hear anything about what’s up with Spooner?”

 

 

Some of the guys come into the city in August for a youth camp the Ranger’s are hosting, and so they can close on their new apartment. It’s really nice, a converted building designed for households with “differing lifestyles.” Plenty of windows, but internal enough that Jimmy can get around, too. There’s a tunnel leading into the nearest train station. He likes it.

Brady looks good. Tan and built and content, like a summer well-spent. Jimmy tries really hard not to think about it, except he fails, because Instagram and Twitter and Snapchat all exist now.

Jimmy’s going to miss Steps and Raants, but he’s still—he’s exciting to go back in the fall, see Kevin and Brady every day.

 

 

The summer slides by. Jimmy trains, shows his face at a respectable number of Harvard alumni and Mass-USVS events. There are people that require effort for him to see now, so he does that, too.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy gets a text late in the afternoon, **U up?**

 _No,_ Jimmy responds His door unlatches, and Jimmy looks out from under his pile of blankets to see Brady walk in with a soft pink and skin record jacket in hard. He looks very pleased with himself as he says, “I have something I think you’re going to enjoy very much.”

Jimmy eyes Brady suspiciously as he slides over to his turntable, big hands careful as they put away the record still resting there and sets the needle. “Is this that One Direction guy you’re in love with?”

“I think you’re a little past ‘that 1D guy,’ James,” Brady says dismissively, and Jimmy once again regrets telling him anything. He flops down on the bed next to Jimmy, over the blankets but close. Jimmy could probably smell him, if he breathed.

They lie there, quiet. Training camp has always been a bitch, and even with how much progress Jimmy has made, he can still practically feel himself drying out at the exertion, and the bedroom situation, upon further experience, is a bit of a joke. Jimmy got shafted with the smallest room and the smallest bed, just because he doesn’t technically sleep all that much, and Brady has exposed brick that leaks traffic, to the point where he’s considering holing up in what’s either supposed to be a walk-in closet or a nursery, which in turn will practically give him his own wing to the place. Kevin’s the only one with a real, proper, _nice_ bedroom. They’re both dicks, as far as Jimmy’s concerned.

The album is almost absolutely Harry—Styles? They met, but just the once, it feels weird either way—but Jimmy can’t begin to care, just listens through obediently.  A slow lull comes on, and Jimmy hisses, faux scandalized, “Oh my god, did he just talk about _jerking off?_ He was in a _boyband.”_

Brady hushes him. “It’s the last song, shut up. And, like, half of their songs have always been about jerking off.

Jimmy goes quiet again, then the whole room does when the needle hits the runout. Brady is the one to break it. “So, did you like it?”

“Yeah. I mean—yeah.”

Brady huffs, pushes at him a little, skin to skin. “You don’t have to lie if you didn’t.”

“No, I liked it. It’s just… weird, I guess, listening to people now making shit with seventies nostalgia. People were obsessed with, like, the fifties when I was—” Jimmy cuts himself off, looks skyward for a second. It’s one thing to think it, but wonders if he’ll ever feel less awkward, reminding people how fucking old he is.

It doesn’t seem to bother Brady any, who says, “Guess that’s just how people are, eh? I watched some Youtube video over the summer about how eighties drums or something are coming back, too. Also, while I’m in here, some of the guys are coming over for the Giants game. You should consider climbing out of your coffin.”

“Go Pats,” Jimmy responds automatically. “I’m going back to sleep for the next forty-eight hours. Don’t forget your record.”

Brady waves him off. “Already got it on my phone.”

He leaves, before Jimmy can remind him that Jimmy has his own phone with Spotify and Apple Music subscriptions, and Jimmy stays put until he’s reminded himself that he’s really not a kid anymore and lying around listening to records don’t count as dates anymore.

 

* * *

 

San Jose comes to them early in the season. After, a kid with wet black hair and dark, round eyes eyes finds tracks down Jimmy still dressed all in Underarmor, like maybe he rushed. “Mr. Vesey? I’m David. Davey. Grzelcyk. Well, Walsh-Grzelcyk, but—Matt’s kid?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Jimmy responds, mouth numb. “Jimmy’s fine.”

David is adopted but still somehow has the same broad-faced look as Matt. Jimmy doesn’t know what to say, feels like he’s swallowed his tongue. He’s so fucking _young._

David gulps in and says, “It’s super cool to meet you. My dad talks about you all the time—like, when I was younger and stressed out about hockey he’d always talk about how if a dead guy to do it, so could I, which isn’t the best way to put it, sorry, but it worked?—and when you two played together b _a_ ck in B _ah_ ston and he’s super psyched that you’re playing again, but he’s, like, way dumber with technology and it’s been generally agreed we don’t need to get him on social media, so he wanted me to give you his number? He said to call whenever, but we’ve got him pretty good on texting now, and, honestly, you don’t even know how much of a miracle that is. Every little thing, he’d always call us—like, me and Dad and my brother and sister—he’d always about it, even if it was a prime example of something that’s, you know, easily answered in text form and, it’s, like, you guys aren’t even that old, he’s ridiculous, his texts still look like literal, physical l _etters,_ but, yeah. He’d probably really like hearing from you, if you want.”

Jimmy blinks, and says, “Yeah, for sure,” and is saved from figuring out what else he’s supposed to say by Brady swooping in and shoving Davey around, smiling and chirping.

After Davey disappears back down the visiting locker room’s hallway, Jimmy asks, “How do you know Davey?”

“NTDP for life, baby,” Brady responds, because of course. “How do you know Mr. Grzelcyk?”

“Do not call him that. Jesus. We went to high school together,” Jimmy admits after a pause, and it feels so simple that it’s practically a lie. Brady doesn’t push it.

It takes most of the night for Jimmy to send to the number David— _Davey_ —gave him.

_Your kid talks a lot. -J_

 

 

Jimmy is saved from having to think about it too hard by having his damn teeth kicked out.

He’s not even sure how it happens. One second, he’s trying to muscle Kassian out of the way and the next, he’s in such a sharp pain he’s curling from it, stunned. He can feel stale blood sluggishly dripping down his chin. Muscle memory kicks in. This is hockey. Stand up. Don’t let the trainer help. Sit on the bench until they herd him into the locker room.

 _Fuck,_ it hurts.

“I think they’re still in there,” Jimmy lisps at the person dabbing at his fattening lip, still on the bench.

They go back and take an x-ray. Jimmy is right.

“We have to get those out,” one the trainers say.

“Before—” another starts. They all glance at him. What they mean is, before his lip stitches itself up around them, but some people are still iffy on where the lines are, when it’s polite to say Jimmy’s doing something not quite human. There is also possibly some concern about what-all is going in in the mouth of a vampire with broken teeth, like maybe he’d sprung a venomous leak. The doctor concludes, “We’ll call in a specialist. Do you think you’ll be alright to play?”

“Yup,” Jimmy says. They offer some lidocaine, but Jimmy turns them down. He has no clue how he’d metabolize it, if it’d be worth the trouble. A fish bowl is affixed to his helmet and he joins for the third. Despite his face, it feels good to be out there, like they’re finally playing some good fucking hockey. The win makes for the sixth a row.

Jimmy actually knows the doctor the team calls in—another vampire named Victoria. She has the sort of out-of-age aura pretty much everyone gets after a certain point, Jimmy has found, and barely glances at Jimmy’s x-ray before finding a set of tweezers and digging in. It’s effective dig, but still very much digging.

 _“Ow,”_ Jimmy says.

“You want these?” she asks, gesturing to his bloody, fleshy, fractured teeth. They’re pretty gross, even my Jimmy’s new standards. The team might want to see them. Jimmy nods. Victoria doesn’t look impressed, but she moves on to say, “How do your biters feel?”

“... Fine?” It was only the front two that got knocked around, and the biters are even sturdier. Victoria would know that.

And yet, Victoria looks unimpressed. “You’re on a restricted diet, correct?”

“I mean, technically?” _Diet_ makes it sound like he’s ever been better-fed, but Jimmy doubts that she particularly cares about that.

“If you’re badly injured in a way that threatens malnourishment, I can prescribe you a larger cap on your feeding, both to counter any negative effects and speed along healing,” Victoria explains patiently.

“Oh. _Oh._ I, uh, yeah, definitely. Now that I think about it, my entire mouth feels really… rattled?”

“That’ll do,” she says, pulling out a notepad and scribbling quickly. “Give this to your nutritionist, it should be good through the New Year if they like you.”

“Thanks, Tori,” Jimmy says, taking the paper. She has the usual script of a doctor, but Jimmy can recognize the blood-talk shorthand. He lets himself be annoyed for a few seconds that this paper and doctors and the league get to decide how good he’s allowed to feel before tucking it away for another day.

“Never said you can call me that,” Victoria says, but she pats him on the shoulder. “Good game, Jimmy. I know your schedule is hectic, but do try to stop by the meetings sometimes.”

Jimmy shrugs, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

After, Brady says, “I think we, as a team, need to agree to stop taking skates to the face.”

“At least mine wasn’t friendly fire,” Jimmy responds. He knocks his knee against Brady’s. Brady laughs. Jimmy has to look away.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Kevin says loudly from the front.

 

 

They give him _real blood_ to recover. More of it than Jimmy’s ever seen outside of a living body. He would feel about hogging more than his share of the fridge if it wasn’t, again, nearly completely empty. And the leftovers that are there have probably seem worse.

It’s hard not to drink it all at once. Jimmy’s starved before, dieted before, even scratched at the surface of satisfied before, when no one else was looking, but he hasn’t been full, drenched, in so fucking long. If ever. He doesn’t know. He could find where the bottom of this thirst is, if it exists.

That, of course, is beyond what the league would allow. He splurges once on the first night, when he can still feel new teeth digging their way out of his gums. Doles out the rest in reasonable, prescribed doses.

It’s good. He feels good. Better than he’s been in awhile.

 

 

A few days in, everyone goes out to some bar. It’s loud and crowded, but they just won a hard-fought game, and Jimmy’s feeling it. He even finds some just-tipsy-enough guy who lets him drink enough to drift towards drunk; it’s probably more than he should take, but it feels good. He’s caught up in how good it feels. And maybe that’s why, when he goes back to find his team, he doesn’t think twice about wrapping his arm around a familiar set of shoulders, squeezing the round of his bicep.

Brady stares at him, shocked.

“What?” Jimmy asks.

“You’re _hugging me,”_ Brady says, like maybe it is like that.

Under Jimmy’s arm, Brady feels iron-hot, like life is radiating off him, and—

Jimmy drops his arm like the reminder scalded him, steps away, says, “Sorry,” and then, accusatory, “You hug the guys all the time.”

It’s not a real argument, Jimmy thinks, but he still can’t help but pull every moment to the front of his mind; his family’s casual acceptance, being crammed on that couch, fucking around at practice, _Brady_ approaching him, touching him. It—it’s not a thing. Shouldn’t be a thing.

 _“You_ don’t,” Brady says. He’s look at Jimmy like something is clicking into place, and it makes everything in Jimmy want to skitter away. Brady lashes out and wraps his fingers around Jimmy’s wrist before he can do more than step back. He pulls until Jimmy is back up against his side, arm over his shoulders. “You’re looking good. Better. Lately.”

Jimmy feels almost too warm. He can feel his his thundering in his chest; the guy earlier had probably been too much, but Jimmy still wants more, wants to find him and dig in over and over. His tongue feels like a whetstone, parched even now—and Brady’s right, he does _feel good_ —pressing up against diamond-sharp teeth. It’s dizzying. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to back to feeling half-empty.

Unconsciously, Jimmy presses against his mouth. He shrugs off Brady’s question, but Brady still stares for another long moment, squeezing tighter.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy is an asshole after he runs out of blood. He doesn’t mean to, and it’s not like he’s actually going through withdrawal; the Rangers really do the most they can for him, within the boundaries of the law.

The law is stupid. Jimmy is hungry.

 

* * *

 

Next time they’re in Boston, Jimmy doesn’t even crack double-digits in ice time. It’s a shitty game. The team pulls off a win in OT, but—Jimmy plays like shit.

He just wants to crawl back to the hotel afterwards, but Kevin corners him before he even manages to get his suite on.

He starts, “So, don’t get mad, and you can say no. Seriously, absolutely no shame in it.”

Jesus christ. “Why? What happened?” Jimmy says, weary.

Kevin breathes in, puts on his best convincing face, and says, “My mom wants to talk to you. Listen! _Listen,_ I know shit got real. I was there. I’m not saying you have to, no one with any sense would blame you, but… I don’t know, man, I don’t want to push you or whatever, but it’s been a long time. I think things could be different.”

Jimmy knew Kevin brought a large audience every time he plays in Boston. He also knew he was related to a non-zero percentage of that crowd.

The last time Jimmy had been surrounded by family, other than Kevin and sometimes Little Jimmy, who is now larger than Jimmy, it’d been at his mother’s death bed. She’d been old, frail, but still lucid enough to insist that Jimmy lay alongside her and face his sins in the afterlife. It’d been about as peaceful as he could hope for.

The air feels stale and thin. Kevin leaves Jimmy there against the wall with a bump against his shoulder. He shouldn’t want to go. He _doesn’t;_ it’s maybe even pathetic, to still feel that fear and rejection like a sizzling burn against his skin after so long, but he does.

Further back, he remembers Lisa’s first night at home, how shockingly quiet she was compared to some of his cousins. Teaching her how to skate, doing anything to make her laugh, chasing down other Townies who gave her shit with Nolan—so much has faded away, but much he loves Lisa has stayed crystal sharp.

Maybe Lotte has on to something about journaling. Jimmy knows he’s lost a lot already. He’s going to keep losing more and more, and most of it will be completely beyond his control.

Jimmy warms his hands under the air dryer until his skin starts to crack before finding Kevin.

There’s a crowd. Lisa looks the same. Older. Jimmy’s not sure if she really hadn’t been grey before or if she’s just stopped trying to hide it.

He holds back, half-wanting to turn around and run, but Lisa sees him before he can move. It’s like her face cracks. Jimmy can relate.

“Jim,” she says, voice cracking. Jesus. He might as well have torn his heart of his chest and thrown it into the Charles.

“Uh, yeah. Hey, Lisa,” Jimmy chokes out. When the silence drags on too long—and Jimmy isn’t even sure if the hall is actually silent or if his ears are ringing—he adds, “How’ve you been?”

“Good. Fine. I’ve been fine,” Lisa responds. She wipes at her eyes furiously. “God, not that it matters. I—I _know_ I—I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m so beyond sorry, I can’t even start. That’s no excuse for how I treated you, let you be treated, for years. It’s—”

Even after so many years, her face still fits into the same righteous set, jaw tight with anger. Not directed at Jimmy this time, at least.

 _You tried to kill me,_ Jimmy doesn’t say. He’s angry, too, in a great, spiraling mess without direction. He sick of having to soothe and forgive. He misses his family and every other part of him that’s melting away from him as he comes unstuck from time. The arena they grew up in has been demolished for nearly twenty years.

It’s too much for one night. They don’t have forever, but Jimmy can say, “Thank you,” because he means it, and, “Listen, I have to talk to the coaches before we leave, but Kevin can give you my info, alright?”

He leaves before the entire world can collapse in on itself.

Brady intercepts him at some point. He stares hard into Jimmy’s eyes, but all he says is, “You know, Kevin promised he’d take me to Mike’s after the game. Flakey.”

Jimmy’s shoulder relax a fraction, enough for him to sound mostly normal as he responds, _“Mike’s?_ Never go to Mike’s. Fuckin’ tourist trap. Fuck Kevin, I’ll show you some real Boston pastries.”

The two of them leave before Kevin shows up again. Jimmy keeps saying _Mike’s!_ with varying degrees of disgust and contempt, and Brady keeps laughing more than it’s worth, mouth wide and eyes melted-warm. The walk into the North End is short and digs up the same sort of disguised familiarity Jimmy gets whenever he walks through Boston now. It’s cold enough that they probably should have called an Uber, but Brady had just bumped his shoulder against Jimmy’s and said, “I think I can take it.”

Still, his face is blood-red and shiny by the time they make it to Bova’s. It’s small, bright but lived-in, with the few other small groups pushing the space into crowded. Still, Jimmy’s barely nudged Brady towards the back counter before a voice is calling out, “Hey, is that a Vesey?”

“Christ,” Jimmy breathes. He tells Brady, “Figure out what you want,” before squinting and guessing, “Frankie?”

“So you haven’t forgotten everyone after all!” Frankie is coming out from behind the counter. He comes short of embracing Jimmy, but he does put a bracing hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, shakes, and does not let go.

“I don’t forget,” Jimmy says, even as he’s trying to place where they know each other from; church? Hockey? Friend of a friend of a friend? Distant cousins? “Just would’ve hated to scare away customers, that’s all.”

Frankie scoffs. “We’ve all seen scarier things than you, buddy.”

In fact, they went to school together, although Frankie had been three years behind. He had also married Jimmy’s second cousin Theresa sometime after that, and now they have produced another generation bent on going to Harvard, apparently because of Jimmy.

“I don’t know exactly how they plan on me _paying for that,_ it’s ridiculous nowadays, honestly, but it’s good they have goals, role models,” Frankie concludes. He shakes Jimmy again, and says, “Hey, listen, I got something special for your type, wait here.”

Brady has made it to the front of the line and is slowly pointing out bricks, cakes, lobster tails. Jimmy watches until Frankie reemerges with an opaque brown bag. There’s something natural and metallic in it, but Jimmy can’t quite place it, either. It’s somewhat worrisome.

“Try this,” Frankie says, unrolling the top of the bag.

“Tell me what it is first,” Jimmy responds, eyeing the thing suspiciously. It smells even weirder up close, if not necessary bad.

 _“Trust me,_ Jimmy.” Frankie gestures with the bag again. Jimmy sighs, resigned to his own curiosity, and reaches out. He pulls out something that looks like a thin wafer and roughly the color of rust, neither of which are Jimmy’s favorite things. Still, it’s too late to turn it down, now that he’s touched it, and he hesitantly puts it in his mouth.

He blinks. Takes another chip, lets it melt on his tongue.

“What _is_ that?” Jimmy asks. Frankie just passes him the bag, and Jimmy can’t stop eating—actually eating, as much as he can.

“Chocolate,” Frankie says proudly. “I figured, you know, you guys must get tired of the same thing, and if taste is all just chemicals…”

“Uh huh.” Another piece dissolves on his tongue. It doesn’t quite taste how he remembers chocolate, before everything turned to dust and made him gag, but it’s the same feeling, somehow. “Isn’t this all supposed to be highly regulated?”

Frankie waves him off. “What, you gonna snitch? Because I don’t think I have any. I think I just have a couple pending patents and licenses.”

“Sounds about right to me. Do you have any more of this stuff?”

Jimmy gives Frankie his address and leaves the bakery without having spent a dime, even though both his and Brady’s hands are full.

Brady is _looking_ at him again.

“What? Look, Boston is a small city, it just gets smaller the more you’re around.” Brady just laughs. Even though it’s so frigid even Jimmy can feel it, Brady insists on walking a couple blocks over to the park.

 “Seriously, Brady, it’ll be good just as good at the hotel, it’s wicked cold out,” Jimmy wheedles.

Brady just smiles, squints a little teasingly. “Wicked. We’ve been in the city for a day, Jimmy.”

“I’ve lived here longer than you’ve been alive,” falls out of Jimmy’s mouth automatically. It’s a joke, but he’s still embarrassed for as long as it takes for Brady to laugh it off and them some.

Brady's face settles into something a little more contemplative. He asks, "So this remind you of old times, Jim?"

"Not really. A lot's different." Even after the run-in, it feels true. The park they're in now used to be the Central Artery, before the Big Dig sent it underground. The landmarks are there, or most of them — Fenway yes, Boston Garden no — but it's like the whole face of Boston changed when Jimmy wasn't watching close enough, places shutting down and and people leaving, moving, morphing the city into something only barely recognizable, if he squints. Jimmy knew that by the time he got to Harvard, but it feels worse, somehow, to now know his home well enough to truly show it to Brady. Like the difference between the quilt Jimmy has on his bed back in New York and the one he had as a child, a gift from his grandmother from before he can even remember that moths or mice had chewed the corners off of and time had worn away stitches and patterns and utility.

The night is quiet. Peaceful. The view, new at it is, wraps around Jimmy quietly, wholly. Brady is still watching him. Jimmy adds, "Not all bad, though. You know how many serial killers were around when I was a kid?"

Jimmy was hoping for a laugh but gets a gentle smile instead. Brady's cheeks are so red. Jimmy forces his extra scarf onto Brady, some stupid thing that Kevin forced upon him for the sake of fashion, but doesn’t say anything else. He stuffs his hand back into the bag of chips and takes it in.

He’s licking the dust off his fingers when Brady asks, “You really like that, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Jimmy says, but it’s not like Brady could really get the novelty of it, something other than flesh in his mouth for the first time in a lifetime. Instead of saying that, though, he says, “Kit Kats used to be my favorite.”

Brady hums. “And, like, the last month, with the extra blood—that’s been good for you, too, right?”

“Well. _Yeah.”_  That much Jimmy knows Brady can put together. Everyone likes being well-fed. He’s not sure what Brady’s getting at, though, and he doesn't find out. Brady leaves it with a hum, stretches out, and digs out a cupcake the size of Jimmy’s fist. They go back to not talking.

Jimmy can feel himself settling back into place. Maybe not at peace, but settled.

Brady’s flexing his fingers by the time he packs everything back into the bad. Jimmy calls an Uber without asking. He eyes Brady’s red knuckles and wishes it wouldn’t be such a fucking terrible idea to hold his hands, least of all because it wouldn’t fucking work.

 

 

Frankie must express-ship it, because Jimmy gets a package a couple days after they get back from Boston. There are many bags of chips. They have different bags, with a customer survey about which is best. Last time, he'd gotten a stomach ache back at the hotel. Too much solid food at once. He'll have to be more careful, but they were too good to give up all together. He puts aside one to pass along to Lotte next time she pops by to make sure he’s still alive. Maybe he’ll go to her, someday.

He also gets a letter from… also his cousin? His nephew? He is nine years old and his handwriting shows it. For some reason, he thinks Jimmy is good at hockey, and also possibly a good person. It is the best thing Jimmy has ever recieved.

“Where’s my letter? Does he know I’m also his cousin?” Kevin complains when Jimmy pins to the fridge.

“Have you tried being a mythical creature of the night? It’s all the rage with the kids these days,” Jimmy says.

 

 

Kevin and Brady are both flying home for the the holidays. Before doing that, Brady corners Jimmy alone in his bedroom, fidgeting around like he fits there.

“So, like, you don’t really talk about this stuff, but I just want to put it out there, if you’re ever looking for a snack, I’m available,” Brady says, casually, just throwing it out there, like it doesn’t make every muscle in Jimmy’s body draw tight and needy.

 _Looking for a snack._ What a fucking way to put it.

“What? What are you talking about? No,” Jimmy says. Firmly. There’s no way—he can’t even think about it. He will not think about it, not one bit.

And Brady just says, “Think about it, over break. Merry Christmas.”

He pushes another thin square into Jimmy’s hands, like that’s supposed to distract him from the boulder that Brady just tossed into the tranquility of their cohabitation. The cover is something psychedelic that Jimmy doesn’t recognize.

Jimmy spits, sharper than he even means to, “You know, Brady, I have an iPhone like everyone else.”

 _“I_ like records,” Brady says.

 

* * *

 

Brady and Kevin go home for the holidays. Jimmy gets an invitation from Boston but turns it down. It might be selfish of Jimmy, but it felt too soon. So he stays home.

Katie flies in to New York. She has family there, so it’s not just for Jimmy, but—

“It’s so good to see you,” she says, forehead against Jimmy’s shoulder, arms around his shoulders. Her hair smells a little like chlorine, but it harder ever doesn’t, like the scent has tied itself into her naturally.

It’s nice, being apart enough to be able to _catch up._ Jimmy shares his chips and loses an entire bad as Katie admits, “My family’s pissed at me.”

“What? Why?”

She chews for a second and then says, “I think they think that, because I’m the way I am, that I’m now doubly obligated to do everything they want me to do, since I’m not exactly short on time, but it’s, like, still my time to spend, you know?”

Jimmy ponders that, eats another chip. “Well, what are they asking about?”

It’s very quiet for a moment before she replies, “I’m going pro.”

Jimmy blinks. He doesn’t think he’s miscounting, but— “Don’t you still have two years?”

“Technically,” Katie replies. “But I’m not using them.”

Jimmy thinks. “Okay,” he says. “And why is that?”

He’s not looking, but he can feel her tense across from him, grinding her teeth. “They’re going to age me out, Jim. You know it. At the absolute max, I have twelve more years. It’s better than I could’ve had, but I have _a lot_ more time to earn a degree I don’t care about or whatever. I want to make the most of this while I have it.”

It’s not something they discuss, but Jimmy wonders, briefly, if this is something Katie actually chose. If he judges her for it. When he turned into Lotte, thinking that she sounds so _young._

Jimmy liked college, even though he doesn’t care much about the degree it gave him. He liked his team and more importantly _needed_ them to get where he is now. Katie’s a stronger athlete than him, has a better network. She has her mind made up.

“Well,” Jimmy says, drumming up some enthusiasm, “congratulations. You’re gonna kill it.”

Katie breathes out. “Thanks, man.”

 

 

Katie goes to church with her family on Christmas Eve, willingly, because she believes in it. Jimmy leaves her and her family to it and only feels a little guilty.

Still, Jimmy can only tolerate one source at a time, so he is forced to attend Lotte’s holiday party.

They’re better than the meetings used to be; being around a group of vampires used to feel like the worst aspects of a family reunion, right down to the age hierarchy, netted together by qualities beyond personality, for safety and understanding and experience over liking each other at all. No one looks caged within Lotte’s Lenox-Hill penthouse, can barely be bothered with Jimmy’s presence. It’s easier now that society is meshing more, at least in New York.

That’s not to say Jimmy never puts it to good use.

Lotte, as always, looks vaguely like a marble statue that strode its way out of the Met, into Saks, and never looked back. Her smile, small as it is, feels genuine when she finds Jimmy in the crowd.

“James,” she says, and Jimmy’s pretty sure it’s a joke. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He shakes the bag in his hand. “Merry Christmas? And, uh, I need your advice? Legally speaking?”

Lotte’s face slides back to stone—smooth, beautiful, ageless stone—and Jimmy feels it like a pebble in his stomach. She spends a lot of these things in corner with people like Jimmy, hedging around the truce between them and everyone else, straight out of The Godfather.

Once they’ve sat down in her office, the first thing Jimmy does is offer her a bag of chips.

She looks, for the first time since Jimmy’s known her, deeply disturbed.

“What _is_ this?” she says, mouth twisted. She swallows, then reaches for another. “This has no nutritional value.”

Jimmy laughs. “None at all. Have you ever had chocolate before?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Lotte replies. “Where did you get this?”

“I know a guy back up in Boston,” Jimmy says, faux dismissive. He gets a raised eyebrow in response. The last guys from Boston ended up being a major source of migraines for Lotte, but she can’t say he’s bad at sniffing out investment opportunities.

“You know, if you need an accountant, I can go get Louis…” Lotte trails off.

“I know Louis,” Jimmy interrupts. He is, in fact, already Jimmy’s accountant. Steady guy. Jimmy does not want to be rubbing elbows with him at a holiday party. “That’s, uh, not actually what I’m here for.”

His heart throbs uncomfortably in his chest. He didn’t get as much to eat over break, and he was nervous. Lotte has been the most consistent figure in Jimmy’s new life; she deserves his trust probably more than anyone else he knows, and he does, but—

“So, um, if I wanted to have a more consistent donor. Relationship. Type. Thing. And I still have my same restrictions. And he can’t lose too much blood. Would that still be possible?” Jimmy’s face is tingling incriminatingly. He has to work to not look away.

Lotte doesn’t make it easy for him. She says, “I’m not a doctor, either.”

“I know,” Jimmy responds. “But I don’t know—how any of this would work. With everything.”

What he’s trying to say is, he doesn’t want to get kicked out of the league, or for Brady to get nailed for doping, or deal with the same sort of shit Jimmy does, or—

“I don’t want to get arrested for assault or whatever, if someone figures out,” he says as a stand-in.

Lotte takes a deep breath. It’s kind of funny. Performative.

“Consensual feeding hasn’t been illegal for years, Jimmy, I know were alive for that much,” she says, too exasperated to really be sharp. “I’m happy you came to us, really, but you know Victoria, other doctors in our network—I am happy you’re building connections with humans, but I wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself from our community as well. It might benefit you to not be so… preoccupied with human concerns.”

“I know,” Jimmy says, automatically. It’s an old argument, one that was easier to dismiss when Jimmy when everyone still reminded him of hunger and death. Now, it mostly just feels awkward. He’s still young, compared to everyone else in the building, and he circumvented pretty much all the formalities to get there. Not it was his fault, but Jimmy still feels it, sometimes.

Jimmy thinks back to what Katie said the other day, about ticking clocks. Time. The world starts to fold in on itself whenever Jimmy thinks about it for too long, too thoroughly, but at the very least, Jimmy can bet on Lotte—and Victoria and Katie and Malcolm—being here tomorrow, and the next day, and on and on, more surely than he can anything else in his life.

He taps his fingers anxiously against the chair’s arm. “It’s just—I want to. If I can. It’s not like you don’t have a whole harem of donors.”

She raises an eyebrow. Jimmy squeezes his fingers. “I’m also not the one who insists on being in a position for excess human scrutiny. But, as you say, I suppose I would have some experience in what you’re asking.”

 

 

The Lundqvists have a holiday dinner for the guys left in town. Jimmy feels awkward going, even with most of the glamor having been wiped off of Hank—at least off the ice—but it was nice. He played mini sticks with the kids. Shatty tries to wrestle him to the group after he’s drunk too much and forgotten about his knee.

 

 

Things are normal when the guys get back in town. Too normal. Things stay the same around the apartment, Jimmy and Kevin and Brady sharing each other’s space, wandering around New York. The team pulls a 1-0 win out of a shootout against the Capitals. They fly out to Detroit.

Jimmy tells himself that Brady was probably just curious, that he got worked up over nothing. It would have been weird, for it to be anything else. It makes more sense to be relieved instead of disappointed.

He was most of the way through convincing himself of that, stone-still in a hotel room, when from across the room Brady says, “So, did you think about the feeding thing anymore?”

Jimmy’s chest constricts so tight he wheezes. “Jesus, Brady.”

“It’s cool if you’re not interested or whatever, just wanna know,” Brady says, shrugging. He stares straight ahead. There’s a basketball game on, clock ticking down on the final moments of the fourth quarter. Jimmy couldn’t have said which teams are playing.

“I mean,it’s a serious decision, you know? For you. To trust me with that—” Jimmy’s throat constricts, and he pivots before it gets distracting, “and, uh, the dietary stuff. It’d be a lot.”

“Okay,” Brady says. “Do you want to?” He turns towards Jimmy, and it’s even worse. His eyes are so wide and earnest and easy, just like the rest of his face, and Jimmy can practically see the verve of life thrumming through him. It makes Jimmy feel like he’s falling apart, like he _needs_ to crawl into bed next to Brady, take him in.

Jimmy wants to. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, choked and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s not like he’s never bitten someone before, but usually it’s with the type of person who’s looking for someone like Jimmy, not a friend, someone trying to help him or whatever. He doesn’t need the help, but he wants, and it makes him feel like a—

“I want you to,” Brady adds.

And all Jimmy can respond is, “Alright.”

“Alright,” Brady echos. “So, like, are we doing this now, or…?”

Jimmy wishes, with the entirety of his heart, that they weren’t in fucking Detroit. It’s a nice hotel, a sort of sterile clean that sticks to every surface, but it isn’t _their_ space. He wishes they’d done this in the first half of the season when they were hardly traveling, or over the summer, last year, anything to give Jimmy more time to get this right, but he can’t do nothing, not with Brady right there, asking for it, strong and red-blooded.

He forces himself to move to the other bed slowly, sit at the edge of the bed casually. Brady’s heartbeat is quickening, but he doesn’t move anything but his eyes, face still soft and. “Are you sure?” Jimmy has to ask.

“Yeah, dude,” Brady says. He sounds breathless. Jimmy slips his fingers into Brady’s palm and turns over his arm. He swallows, dry. Brady stays well-hydrated. His veins stand out under his skin, from his wrist up into his arm.

Jimmy doesn’t let himself think about this. How good Brady would be at this, how good he’d be for Jimmy. It would’ve driven him crazy. It’s driving him crazy _now,_ how badly he wants to lie Brady out and dig in and take.

“Alright,” Jimmy says. His head feels so cloudy. “We’ll just—a little, to see if you actually like it.”

Jimmy’s never met anyone who lets themselves get bitten and regrets it afterwards; the endorphin rush is intense, but he still wants to give Brady a way out.

Well, no, he doesn’t _want_ to, but—

Brady stays relaxed against the padded headboard as Jimmy raises Brady’s wrist to his mouth. He doesn’t let himself linger on the feel of Brady’s skin against his lips, the taste of it, angles for the lightest scratch of skin against the sharpened ends of his teeth.

The blood blooms in his mouth like dye in water. It shouldn’t make that much of a difference, getting it straight from the source instead of from a blood bag, but it does. Fresh, Brady’s blood is like the most tender steak, holiday dinners, the closest feeling to the sun on Jimmy’s face—

As quick as it opened, the cut stitches itself back together. Jimmy pulls back and gives Brady back his arm. He looks a little dazed as he pulls it back to his face, turning it back and forth. “Woah.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy responds. His stomach is churning a little, the scratch more irritating than satisfying.

“Do you mind if I…” Brady reaches for Jimmy’s face, his jaw. He grimaces obediently. His bite isn’t too far from normal, but it doesn’t take long for Brady to dissect the mimicry of normalcy and prod at a fang that can do some real damage. Jimmy’s jaw drops unconsciously when the scent of blood hits the air again, and Brady pushes his finger deeper, presses it against Jimmy’s tongue until it heads a second later. His blood steals Jimmy’s breath even then, and he’s frozen in place and Brady repeats the process again and again, testing the edges of Jimmy’s teeth.

Jimmy jerks out of it, head swimming, when Brady seems to be going back for another round. He grabs Brady’s wrist again and says, “Stop it, you’re going to mess up your finger.”

His finger looks fine, a little pink. Jimmy lets go and closes his mouth.

It doesn’t take long for Brady to fill the silence. “Well, I’m down. If I passed your test.”

“It wasn’t a _test,”_ Jimmy argues. Everything feels a million miles away. Brady wants to—even with all the complications, he has to know, but Jimmy is so grateful he kind of just wants to curl up against Brady’s leg.

Brady, whose lips are starting to twist incriminatingly. “What? What’s funny?”

“I’m just thinking,” Brady responds, “of a scene in a cartoon that was on when I was a kid; ‘Dracula don’t _suck,_ he _scrapes_ and _licks.’”_ He sticks out his tongue and demonstrates. It is very pink and flexible. “I didn’t know that was a factual representation.”

Jimmy stares. Of course he’d watched plenty of Cartoon Network when Brady was a _kid,_ jesus.

He doesn’t say that he sucks plenty, and that this barely counts as an intro session, but instead he says, “Nevermind, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this—”

Brady laughs.

 

Once they’re back in New York, Jimmy corners Brady in his bedroom and shuts the door behind him firmly, locking the door on Kevin’s complaints.

Brady looks expectant, and Jimmy’s chest jerks, even though he knows they can’t do anything.

He opens the top drawer to his dresser and pulls out a gallon ziploc bag. It rattles ominously.

“So, um, you should be taking these,” Jimmy says. “It’s nothing too exciting, just, you know, iron supplements and stimulants. But only take as much as the note in here says —oh, jesus, sorry, she’s a doctor and like four hundred years old, so if you can’t read any of that, just ask me, because if you take too much of these it’s going to look like doping. Usually people just tweak their diet, but you already eat pretty well, unless you want to up your liver intake, and you have to keep your performance up. Seriously, if you start feeling fatigued or drained or whatever, just tell me, okay?”

Brady takes the bag. “Okay,” he says. “You seem kinda nervous, Jim.”

Jimmy just stares. How badly he could and absolutely cannot fuck this up rattles constantly around his head, his stomach, his hands. He doesn’t get how Brady can trust him this easily, but, selfishly, he doesn’t want to talk Brady out of it, either.

So he just shrugs it off, knocks against Brady’s shoulder, and asks, “You got any plans for the bye-week?”

 

* * *

 

The Winter Classic is in Queens and starts at one in the afternoon. Neither of these facts are very convenient for Jimmy.

He watches from the locker room and hates it. Afternoon games are never his favorite, but his body can play, except for how he can’t, and it feels wrong to be doing nothing. It’s a beautiful day. Citi Fields is packed. The King stands on his head. Jimmy doesn’t breathe until Millsy closes the door in overtime.

He doesn’t do a damn thing all game, and the New York Times guy—not even their regular guy—still hunts him down after. It’s harder than usual to keep a lid on it, not that Jimmy usually gets too bothered.

 

Jimmy doesn’t read his own media, but he clicks this time, makes it through the headline and the lead before closing it out. He opens again, skims. The outside source, from an organization dedicated to vampiric worker discrimination, is one he recognizes.

He’s sure the article is well-researched.

 _If you’re going to use me as a pawn at least give me a head’s up. Not like I’m a five star example,_ he sends to Lotte, paranoid and feeling like shit.

 

The biting isn’t even—It’s not even like him and Brady can do it often or for very long. If caught, bound, and forced to answer _why,_ Jimmy would have to admit there’s no real benefit to biting Brady, except—

It’s hard to not feel close, past the physical, when Brady pulls Jimmy up against his side the crook of his elbow, his shoulder, his collarbone. They don’t have to do it like this, could’ve stuck with wrists at arm’s length. But they didn’t.

Brady likes it up-close, being wrapped up in blankets, feeling Jimmy’s face after like he’s the one who needs to be looked after. It’s—warm. Really warm.

 

* * *

 

Matt has settled into the sprawling suburbs that surround LA. It’s where he’s from now, the only place his kids have called home since he retired. Davey plays for his father’s west-coast rival.  Jimmy knows how much time has passed, even feels the chasm from that Boston that was _theirs,_ but. It’s still jarring.

The time shows on Matt. He still looks good. Handsome. Happy.

“Christ, you really do look the same. Nineteen forever, eh?” he laughs. Jimmy hopes he’s smiling.

Despite Davey’s warnings, Matt works his phone’s photo gallery well enough to introduce Jimmy to his entire family. His husband’s name is Benjamin. They have been together for thirty-two years. His two younger kids, Riley and Val, are perfect.

"I tried to visit, you know," Matt says, and the confusion must show on Jimmy's face, because he elaborates, "After you got changed. I tried to visit, but you weren't—"

His voice cuts out, but he's right. Jimmy wasn't. He hadn't known anyone had bothered to come and see.

It takes a drawn-out moment for Jimmy to find the right words, but he settles on, "Yeah, I was in real rough shape for awhile. Thanks for, you know, trying, at least."

Matt tries to get home before their bedtime every day. He offers to stay later—“Special occasion, you know? Jimmy Vesey, back from the dead!”—but Jimmy lets him go.

 

 

Somehow, Brady is the squirrellier of the two when Jimmy gets back to the hotel.

Normally Jimmy would just go bother Kevin and give him some privacy, but he doesn’t want Kevin picking like he does, either, so instead Jimmy gets in his own bed, puts in headphones, and turns facing the door.

Brady stands up at some point. Distantly, Jimmy hears him open the fridge. His bed dips a moment later. Jimmy squirms over half a foot and takes out a headphone.

“So,” Brady starts, then pauses. “You were out with Mr. Grzelcyk, right? Matt?”

“... Yeah?” Jimmy looks up, but Brady isn’t looking at him, instead focusing on the lid of his water bottle. He inhales deeply before speaking again.

“You know he’s married, right? Like, you can’t…” He trails off again, jaw tightening.

“Jesus christ,” Jimmy says, throat tight. Agitation ripples through him, tingling in his fingertips.

Brady must pick up on it, because he responds, “I’m not, like, judging or whatever, just, from some of the photos Kevin brought back, it looked like—”

“I was then,” Jimmy grits out. “I’m not now. Obviously. We’re not even—in the same places anymore.”

It burns over-honest coming out. Jimmy hates it, this stupid in-between he’s in, old and stunted and shallow, and knowing everyone can see it on him. That Brady does. Everything feels like it flows past him, like a boulder stuck in a river. The tightness spreads to his chest. He rolls back over, face-down in the pillow.

Brady hesitates, then gets off the bed, leaving the water bottle against Jimmy’s side.

 

* * *

 

Things are weird. Jimmy feels like a hypocrite when Brady goes out with some buddy from the U not long after they get back to the city and he spends the night stalking around the apartment like a maniac, according to Kevin.

The friend is very attractive. Objectively. And Brady stays out late. Jimmy makes the executive decision to not ask about it.

Brady finds him afterwards anyway. Jimmy wishes he didn’t expect it, and that he were a stronger person overall.

“So, how was your date?” he asks.

Brady snorts hard. “Not a date. Are you hungry, or…?”

Jimmy’s mouth goes dry instantly, crackling. “I could eat.”

He watches as Brady shrugs out of his jacket and rolls up a sleeve. The air feels thin and tight. It’s not they’re never apart, but a greedy satisfaction still rumbles through Jimmy’s stomach as he watches. He still isn’t over the novelty of it, the trusting look on Brady’s face as Jimmy bends his head—

His mouth flares to a bright, blistering heat. He tastes blood. Not Brady’s.

Jimmy stumbles back, off his bed. He thinks Brady’s saying something but it feels miles away, his clounded and numb from panic. Raw muscle memory gets him to the bathroom, turns on the sink, and sticks his face under the faucet.

“Jimmy?” Brady is peaking around the doorway.

The water runs red, then pink. The heat is radiating outward, down his throat. Jimmy pulls his head back long enough to ask, “Did you, uh, have a lot of garlic with dinner?”

Brady sounds panicked as he responds, “Oh, shit.”

Jimmy retches. Red again.

“I’m fine,” he says. “Do we have any, like, Benadryl?”

 

Victoria is deeply unimpressed. Brady keeps picking at the bandage around his arm. Jimmy is equal parts embarrassed and exhausted.

“Usually we—the whole team—just get food from the team, and they probably already knew to not use it, and I—I don’t know. I guess I never thought about it. Or thought it was a myth,” Brady is explaining, talking faster than he normally does, probably still a little freaked out.

“Uh huh. I seem to remember writing all this down, exactly to prevent these sorts of mishaps,” Victoria says, voice heavy. Jimmy cringes. The floor linoleum is very clear and white. Neither of them say anything. Victoria makes another displeased noise. “His blood is going to be contaminated for at least three days, until he can sweat it out. I recommend waiting for at least a week.”

She turns back to her computer and takes a few nights. Jimmy would see a HIPAA violation in his future, if he technically wasn’t there to begin with.

“Can he get more blood again? Like last time he got hurt?” Brady asks. His hands are shoved under his arms and his eyes are still a little too wide.

Jimmy’s mouth feels swollen and gross, even after the injections Victoria gave him. He feels overly aware of the crinkling paper bed sheet beneath him and the distance Brady is keeping.

He swallows and says, “I’m fine.” Brady starts to protest, and he repeats, firmer, “I’m _fine.”_

Jimmy meets Victoria’s eyes. She nods.

 

The subway is as quiet as it ever is on their way back to the apartment. Jimmy is distinctly appreciative of living in a city that appreciates the true length of the day. Never sleeps, indeed.

Brady sits with a seat between them, legs still stretched in Jimmy’s direction. There’s an distant look on his face. His arm is held carefully within his jacket. Jimmy wants to let him think, but it bothers him, too. “Sorry about all that. Others can get pretty guarded, about the community.”

“They’re _protective,”_ Brady responds quick. “And it’s not like there’s no reason, either.”

“Brady, come on.”

 _“You_ come on. Why didn’t you take the blood?”

The truth is, it hasn’t even been two months yet and Jimmy already knows knows he’s overeager. Has maybe gotten overly attached to this thing they do. Synthetic blood is improving quickly, but it’s nothing compared to drinking from Brady, being that close to him. So maybe he’s being a little generous in what he can take, not enough to bother Brady but definitely enough to sound some alarm bells if he added anymore. He also knows that if he told Brady about all this, no way he wouldn’t be able to put the pieces together. The logical thing would be to stop.

So, Jimmy shrugs. “It wouldn’t have been legitimate, anyway.”

“That’s bullshit. She’s your _doctor,_ she knows what you need better than some paranoid, pseudoscientific hangups the Board of Directors stuck in the CBA, _fuck,”_ Brady spits. He goes quiet for a minute, withdrawn, and when he speaks again, his voice is wet and shaky. “I don’t want to hurt you, or make all this harder on you. I’m not—how can put up with this? I feel like I can’t understand anything about your life, or—”

His voice cuts out, and the car goes quiet. Jimmy hopes the only other person there has their music turned up loud. Eventually, he says, “Well, I did get in-patient treatment for like two decades. I’m in a kind of frail condition. You’re not—it’s not on you. Don’t blame yourself.”

Hesitantly, Jimmy shifts, bumping his shoulder against Brady’s. He feels overly aware that he’s probably running cold _,_ but Brady doesn’t hesitate to twist his arm around and wrap his fingers around Jimmy’s wrist, squeezing. “Is there anything else I should know to avoid accidentally killing you? Silver? Crosses? Wooden stakes?”

“Uh,” Jimmy starts. Briefly, Jimmy wishes he and every other vampire wasn’t , but for now he just says, “Other than the obvious right now, not really. I mean, I’ve always been sensitive to metals, but for the most part, if you’re not trying to kill me, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Brady looks up their joined hands in his lap, eyes wide, and tells Jimmy, “I want you around, you know?”

 

 

They take Victoria’s advice, but Brady doesn’t go far. In fact, his proximity feels even more pointed without the excuses. He’s picked up the habit of feeling Jimmy’s face with the palms of his hands, like Jimmy’s sick or something.

His skin is cool and clammy and his heart thrums nervously from its watered-down supply, but it’s closer to what Jimmy’s come to expect. The indulgences—those had been unusual.

 

* * *

 

Jimmy’s playing like shit. The whole team is losing, a sour air hanging in the locker room after every defeat, every win feeling more like the exception than the rule, but Jimmy feels clogged up with the guilt. Success isn’t the chief reason why Jimmy signed with New York, but he still wants to be _good_ for the team. Kids act starstruck when they see him, beg for his autograph like he’s part of something important. Now, there’s a splinter running through the team. No one likes talking about the summer, but something is going to give, fall away in great clumps.

 

It doesn’t take until summer. They lose Nasher. Millsy. Their fucking captain.

 

There are some vague plans within the team to get together. Commiserate. Jimmy has some vague plans to join. He hasn’t made it off his bed by the time Brady finds him.

Brady seems to be taking the news poorly, face still wide and shocked. It’s fair enough; he’s been in New York longer and is maybe not so used to things twisting away from him so suddenly, although Jimmy wonders if that’s ungenerous of him to think.

It takes a moment of internal organizing to dig up the right response—sympathy, annoyance, resignation—and hopes it’s reflected in his face. Something in Brady’s posture shifts, becomes a fraction more tense.

“Just—tell me if I read this wrong.”

Jimmy feels warm hands cradling his face first, rough thumbs soft against the thin skin of his cheekbones. He can only look up at warm eyes like melted chocolate, his chest constricting and overflowing at once, until the skeletal structure holding them upright collapses inward.

The sheer heat and weight of Brady is instantly overwhelming. Jimmy feels Brady’s tongue against his lip and wants to suck on it, any thought that it might be _weird_ shattered by Brady’s deep groan vibrating down to where their chests are pressed together. Brady bites at him, a gentle but thorough drag of blunt teeth as his fingers twist in Jimmy’s hair. It’s getting long. He should get a haircut.

His blood feels thin, molten. There’s a taste of iron in his mouth. He’s not thinking when he edges his fingers underneath Brady’s shirt until he feels a twitch.

“Sorry,” Jimmy murmurs. He could feel the contrast against his fingertips in that fraction of a second.

Brady shakes his head, long eyelashes dragging open but not going far, lips brushing as he says, “Don’t be, don’t be.”

 

They fly out to Vancouver. Jimmy scores for the first time in seven games, one of the six it takes for the Rangers to wrestle in their first win in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Things get better, barely, before sliding back down the hill. People are frustrated. Jimmy is frustrated. They scratch out a win against the Sabres, lose against the Capitals, and get mathematically eliminated from playoff contention a day later. It’s almost too easy to just curl inward and scratch at the opportunity in his own house, and Brady seems to have the same sort of single-minded focus.

It takes a lot twisting for them to fit face-to-face on the worst couch in America—Jimmy doesn’t even know why he kept the thing—but they manage it. His face is buried against Brady’s neck. The shallow cut he’d made earlier is barely even pink anymore, and if Jimmy was feeling honest, he’s more nuzzling than feeding at this point. His brain feels overheated and offline when Brady says, “Can I ask you something?”

Jimmy grunts and sucks a little. Brady’s warm, too, the haze of him curling around Jimmy.

“It’s totally alright whatever the answer is, I’m just wondering,” he adds.

Jimmy pulls back just long enough to respond. “Jesus, dude, what?”

“Do you, like, not like giving head?” Jimmy chokes. “I’m just asking! It’s totally cool—”

“Mostly,” JImmy interrupts, well aware of the blush creeping down Brady’s neck, “I think people just aren’t huge fans of the huge fangs being so close to their business.”

“They’re not huge. Perfectly proportionate to your mouth,” Brady argues. He wriggles around again until he can reach out to cradle Jimmy’s face. His thumb nudges Jimmy’s lip up. “Do they hurt?”

“No,” Jimmy says. It feels stupid to be arguing about this as Brady is sliding his thumb further into Jimmy’s mouth to prick his thumb, let Jimmy suck on it. It’s hard to not want _more._

“Yo, dudes, you wanna—Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ!”

Jimmy jolts backwards, falling onto the floor, the second he hears the door slam open, but he suspects it’s already pretty incriminating. He can still scent Brady’s thumb bleeding, and neither of them have the best poker faces at the best of times. Kevin’s face has already settled into—something definite. Not thrilled.

They’re arguing over whether this is still technically Brady’s bedroom, since he’d moved his actual bed into the side room, and knocking is required either way. It doesn’t seem to be going well. Jimmy tries to pull himself up and focus in and say, “Kev—”

Kevin barely glances down at him before saying, “You know what, whatever, I’m out.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him, but it still feels very pointed. Jimmy lies back on the floor and groans. From the corner of his eye, he sees Brady twist over the edge of the couch to look down at Jimmy. He reaches down and fits a hand around the side of Jimmy’s neck again, squeezing gently.

“He’ll be fine,” Brady says.

“Sure,” Jimmy responds. “Is your thumb alright?”

 

An angry Kevin reminds Jimmy of Lisa; prone to sulking, obvious about it. Jimmy tries to give him space, guilt rolling uncomfortably in his stomach, but it’s hard. They still live and work together. Kevin is still probably his best friend, who he usually goes to when he needs his head set straight.

Things are tense. The team starts its last road trip of the season with a win and it shouldn’t feel like a surprise. When they go out for dinner after, the good mood dissolves like sugar in water. Jimmy isn’t sure if the other guys are particularly good at ignoring the vibe, or if Jimmy is particularly sensitive to it, or both, but, not for the first time, Jimmy wishes he could still eat regularly just so he’d have something to do with his hands.

He’s sitting next to Brady. Kevin is on the far side of the table. Jimmy’s not sure when that split happened; he’s pretty sure they usually clump together.

Of course, it’s Kevin, so it’s hard to feel far away from him. Jimmy can clearly hear him talking about his goal from earlier, a nice short-handed breakaway that ended up being the game winner, and then about Hank standing on his head _again_ with forty saves, the usual sort of shit about the team needing to be there for him—

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brady says, leaning forward. He’d been on the ice for nearly half the game, invisible but inoffensive, and he hasn’t crashed yet but he’s heading for it. Jimmy takes a gulp of water, even though he already feels waterlogged.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? People can’t just be betting on Hank to win for us—”

“Hey, _fuck you.”_

“Fuck _me?_ Fuck you, you fucking—”

“Okay,” Jimmy interrupts loudly. “Me and Kevin are going for a walk.”

He pushes his chair back louder than he means to, stands, and rounds his way to Kevin, who shakes Jimmy’s hand off his shoulder but leaves without much of a fight. His phone buzzes in his pocket, Kreids asking **?????.** Jimmy just responds _idfk_ and then to Brady he sends, _Chill tf out._

Kevin has nearly rounded the corner already by the time Jimmy looks up, and a spike of annoyance goes through Jimmy. He jogs to catch up. “Dude, what the fuck is your problem?”

“What’s _my_ problem?”

“Yeah, your problem! And Brady’s, now, since you’re both starting shit in public now for some damn reason.”

“‘For some reason,’” Kevin scoffs. He’s slowed down enough for Jimmy to keep pace with him, but the anger is still coming off in waves. Jimmy isn’t even sure what he should be apologizing for, being gay or drinking blood, and he is suddenly, incredibly over all this shit.

“Listen, are we going to keep parroting shit back and forth at each other, or are you actually going to say what’s bothering you?” Jimmy snaps. “Because, you know, I can figure out something else to do this summer if you’re going to need some space—”

Kevin stops, sudden enough that he needs to reach out to stop Jimmy, too. “Hey, no, what the fuck, I’m not trying to shake you off or anything.”

“Then what? Why the are you acting like I—like I’m—” Jimmy knows the words, but they get stuck in his throat, that they may be stuck in Kevin’s, too. It doesn’t ease as Kevin looks away and up, breathing. The isn’t as soupy as it gets during fall road trips sometimes. Jimmy might have even called it nice, on another day.

When Kevin starts talking, it’s slowly, careful. “I was, obviously, hype that you decided to come here and that you and Brady and me are, like, buddies. Then it got really, _really_ obvious that you two were doing shit without me, and I—I don’t know. It sucked.”

Like that, the view shifts; Jimmy had known that Kevin and Brady were close before he showed up, had a that whole year leading into the comfort and familiarity saw when he showed up. Jimmy thinks about coming between them, even accidentally—“So, what, you’re jealous?”

“No! Well—I don’t fucking know. Not that you’re, like, together or whatever. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s fucking weird being, like, edged out. You’re _my_ uncle.”

“Jesus, like you have ever treated me like like your uncle,” Jimmy scoffs, with the same sort of uncomfortable shiver whenever any someone forces him into perspective. “But, Kev, come on. That’s not how shit works. We’re not going anywhere, we’re just—you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kevin says. They’re both quiet for a long moment. Jimmy thinks it might be raining but not enough for either of them to move.

Eventually, Kevin shifts, knocking his shoulder against Jimmy’s. He reaches up and wraps an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder and shakes. “Hey, congrats, alright? You two are gonna be great.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jimmy dismisses, but it feels good.

 

Just like that, the whole situation just evaporates. Jimmy’s been in enough high-tension groups, been around enough teams to watch shit go from zero-to-a-hundred and then right back to zero just as fast, but it’s still a little bizarre and a lot unpleasant to be living with. He’s happy they can all be the same room again.

 

* * *

 

Vigneault gets fired. It doesn’t feel good, but there is some sort of bitter satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Brady starts. He’s in Jimmy’s bed, just lying over the covers. It’s late enough that no one else is likely to barge in, but they’ve decided to be more discrete until they’re more sure of how Kevin and everyone else will reaction. “What do you know about this Quinn guy everyone’s been talking about?”

“Oh my god,” Jimmy says.

“What? You’re both Boston guys, I’m just wondering.”

His first instinct have been to deny, argue that, technically, Quinn is a Rhode Island guy, and they didn’t go to school at the same time, since Jimmy was nine years older, but he breathes in long enough to reorganize and say, “Not that much, honestly. Some guys say he can be kinda tough, but not bad. You’d be better off asking Kevin. Both of them.”

Brady hums and drops the conversation in favor of wriggling closer. The team’s playing their final game against a Flyers that have made the playoffs without a coach, and it feels so small in that moment. They’ll take the break to reset the bones, and they’ll all go home for the summer, when no one will give much a fuck what they’re doing. Jimmy doesn’t like biting while they’re on the road in strange territory, and he swears he can tell, not even because of the hunger but because Brady losing his mark. And they hadn’t talked about it, but—

“You know, Harry Styles is swinging back around for the last leg of his tour,” Brady says, faux-casual, and Jimmy can’t do anything but laugh. “And I was thinking I could come over for his Boston date, or we could meet back here when he’s as MSG, or you could come to St. Paul—”

“Or all three?”

“Or all three,” Brady agrees. “Really get our groupie on.”

Jimmy laughs again. “Sure, alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: extensive Harry Styles name drops, mouth/head injury, blood drinking, stress related to diet restriction, blood within the context of injury, brief emetophobia


	6. 20

****Brady’s cousin gets married in a church. It’s a distant cousin, one that Jimmy hadn’t met and kept Brady in the pews instead of lined up with the other groomsmen, which Jimmy is grateful for. Normally, Jimmy doesn’t show up to these sorts of things, either because of inaccessibility or general disinterest disguised as inaccessibility, but he’d already been visiting, and this particular cousin apparently loved matchmaking in the absence of a plus-one, so. Church.

It’s old enough that the air conditioning seems like little more than a soft breath, and most of everyone has already shed their suit jacket. The stained-glass windows are grand and beautiful, even though Jimmy can’t look at them directly for too long. It smells the same as Jimmy remembers it.

The bride and groom are beautiful and emotional. Tears are shed. The ceremony is done with respectable speediness. Brady keeps his pinky tied with Jimmy’s.

 

The reception takes place at someone’s lake cabin, although it’s nice enough that calling it a cabin feels dishonest. The Skjei clan doesn't sprawl as wide as Jimmy’s did, so it’s not too hard for Jimmy to find people he does know, stranded until sundown as he is.

He’s passed a baby—Ramsey’s baby, Brady’s niece—at some point. She’s very small. Soft. Easy-going. Smells like baby. When she goes from gently babbling to sleeping into the crook of Jimmy’s arm, she stays there for awhile. It’s how Brady finds him, the next time he comes in from making the rounds outside.

“Oh,” he says, running a finger softly over the curve of her head, the downy softness of her hair. “Hi, lucky Penny.”

The look on his face—Jimmy’s chest gives a painful, dry swoop.

 

* * *

 

Brady’s offseason apartment is a mess, as to be expected; he’s never met a floor he wants uncovered or a drawer he wants filled outside the immediate threat of cameras. It’s undeniably Brady’s space, though. Fucking on the couch might not be the most mature way to celebrate that, but, well. It’s their apartment.

The femoral artery is deeper, better protected, than is strictly convenient, but there’s something so sweet about sliding between Brady’s thighs and putting his mouth, his teeth, against the thin skin of Brady’s hip, the inside of his thighs. Brady feels it, too, shakes from it. Jimmy wonders if he still gets nervous.

“You want me to?” Jimmy asks, because he likes hearing it.

Brady twists a hand in his hair and tugs. He sounds breathless as he says, “Come _on.”_

It still burns Jimmy alive that Brady lets him do this, how good it feels to truly be able to drink from him without their employer’s expectations watching over their shoulders. Red-hot life thrums through Brady, radiates off of him, and Jimmy wants it within himself. He kisses the skin beneath his mouth in thanks, skin soft and giving as Jimmy bites down. He barely hears Brady gasp before the taste of blood drowns out every one of his senses. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_ is as good as this, no craving as strong or satisfaction as all-consuming, every time. Jimmy's careful to not do any real damage with his bite, but he's thorough, too, and the blood flows bright and rich into Jimmy's mouth, lighting him up as he drinks. The world narrows to the closed circuit between them.

He pulls back when the hand in his hair tightens, whines at the thick drip still leaking out, sticks his tongue out to lick it up even as he looks up. Brady’s breathing hard, and his eyes look as hazy as Jimmy feels. He says, “Don’t—don’t do just the one.”

The sound that escapes Jimmy’s mouth sounds inhuman even to his ears, but Brady just melts further into the coach. Jimmy twists back further into his lap, biting just enough to bleed up and down the soft skin of Brady’s inner thighs. He’s already started on his summer bulk, strong and healthy and well taken care off.

Brady’s thighs are stained a deep pink by the time Jimmy pulls back. His dick is hard, straining against the mesh of his shorts. Jimmy feels his catching up quickly, his whole body feeling light and reflexive.

“Do you want me to—” Jimmy starts.

“Yeah, yeah, come on,” Brady interrupts, pulling himself together enough to start shoving the waistband down, limbs loose from the rush. “Fuck, you look so hot with my blood in your mouth.”

Jimmy can hardly respond to that, except with a _thank you_ and to make him feel as overwhelmed as Jimmy feels. Almost more than the feeding, the frantic rush afterwards robs Jimmy for a proper thought, grinding him down to raw want and need.

He takes Brady deep, as deep as he can, until sheer muscle memory has him choking on it a little, but not enough to want to pull back. Every part of Brady tastes so good, feels so alive inside of Jimmy. He could’ve stayed there forever, except Brady pulls him back again, waking up impatient.

He pulls Jimmy up, brings Jimmy’s hand up to his mouth, kisses it and says, “I love your hands so much.”

“Yeah?” Jimmy croaks. His voice feels broken from disuse; how long have they even been at this? It feels like forever, never enough.

“Uh huh,” Brady says, before pushing Jimmy’s hand lower, back between his thighs.

Jimmy still can't think, but he’d do anything for Brady then, anytime, especially this. He digs out a bottle of lube they’d stashed nearby—another benefit of no one being around to snoop frequently—and kneels up closer to Brady. There’s so much heat between them, but Jimmy can’t help but lean in closer, greedy for more, everything, from Brady.

Brady’s tight but well-practiced to relax around Jimmy as he presses in. He starts squirming just as quick, heel digging into the small of Jimmy’s back. “Come on, come on,” he’s chanting.

And Jimmy listens, because how the fuck can he not. He thrusts hard, barely able to keep a rhythm over the need to be close to Brady. His hands slide off the back of the couch to Brady’s shoulder until they’re twisted together.

 

After, Brady has a bite mark over his heart so thorough Jimmy can count his own teeth in it. He has to crack it open again to let it heal properly. Brady lets him, half-asleep with a hand on the back of Jimmy’s beck.

 

Jimmy lets Brady sleep. When he wakes up, he’ll eat a small mixing bowl’s worth of iron-enriched Mini-Wheats. They’re good. Everything’s fine.

 

* * *

 

Not a small part of Jimmy wishes they could spend the summer doing nothing, with a side of fucking, but both of them have training. It’s a bit of a mismatch; Brady likes to get it out of the way early in the day, Jimmy still prefers the dead of night and has finally found a trainer to indulge him. They meet in the middle. It’s good.

Jimmy still isn’t quite used to there being food he can eat again. Some—a lot, especially soon after he’s fed for real—of it makes him feel sick, but Brady is very enthused about showing further progress of the Twin Cities, so Jimmy goes along. They’ll be leaving for Massachusetts soon, anyway.

“I cannot believe Kevin beat us to getting married,” Brady says. He’s dressed nice but casual, button-down shirt and khaki shorts. _“Kevin.”_

Jimmy shrugs. “He’s always been a family guy.”

Brady hums agreeably enough to that, but leans back from the table. The silence stretches. Jimmy pokes at his cake; the texture is a bit heavy. He’s not sure he’ll go for a third bite. Jimmy’s checking his phone when Brady snorts.

“People are going to side-eye me so hard when I get older,” he says, nodding behind Jimmy’s shoulder. When he looks, Jimmy sees an older man with someone who could be his daughter, but hopefully not, given the hand placement. They look content enough. Jimmy feels his shoulders tighten.

“What, you mean like how old I currently am?” he asks.

He regrets poking, a little, when Brady’s face tightens, eyes barely not rolling. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I am—”

“I _know,_ Jimmy, can you just not do this right now?”

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” Jimmy says, except he knows he is, so he drops it. The mood has soured, though, and guilt creeps in. When the server circles back around, he asks for their check. Neither of them speak as they head out to the car.

Jimmy likes the Twin Cities, the way they twist around the Mississippi. Massachusetts isn’t exactly the hilliest part of New England, but the wide-open flatness in the suburbs spreading out around them can make Jimmy feel exposed. It’s a beautiful state.

He says as much. Brady takes a deep breath in and says, “Jimmy, I love you.”

They’re not exactly shy about the phrase, not anymore, especially Brady, but the tone makes Jimmy sound less than he means when he responds, “I love you, too…?”

Brady doesn’t elaborate. He also doesn’t take their exit back to the apartment. Jimmy trusts he’s not being kidnapped with malicious intent, leans back against the car window, and watches downtown fade away.

When they pull to a stop however much later, it’s in an empty parking lot of an empty park. A large, barely-rippling lake stands furth in the distance.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the Minnesotan pastime,” Jimmy says, “But I why are we at a lake in the middle of the night?”

“Because I want to be,” Brady says. He turns off the car and exits. In the rearview mirror, Jimmy watches him open the back door and pull out a blanket. He closes the door and walks away.

Jimmy watches him go, sighs, and follows.

The park isn’t completely empty; a group of kids are loitering on the playground but hiss a _shhh_ and go silent as Brady and Jimmy walk by. He suppresses the urge to do something stupid like a friendly to signal they’re not going to snitch—like their own trespassing isn’t enough—and walks silently to where Brady is trying to spread out the blacket further down the pale, sand beach. There’s not much of a breeze, but Jimmy still walks a little faster to help.

They both sit on the blanket, touching but just barely. Neither of them say anything for a long moment. Jimmy worries about bugs, if he keeps them away from Brady, too.

“Do you want to get married?” Brady asks suddenly. It’s not a proposal.

Jimmy briefly considers walking into the lake and never coming back out. Literally drowning can’t be that much worse. He’s not quite circling the question when he responds, “Do you want kids?”

“Yes,” Brady says, no hesitation. Jimmy had already known that, of course, could picture it with perfect clarity. How great he’d be.

His chest feels a little bit like it’s collapsing in on itself. He digs his nails into his palms. It takes a few false starts to say, “I’m not changing anyone. Ever. It’s too risky, and—and I don’t think it’s a good way to live. So.”

“Okay. I don’t want to live forever.” A broken sound escapes Jimmy’s mouth without him meaning it to. He bends his head, hides his face in his hands. “Jimmy, listen, it’s not like I don’t know how hard that is on you. And if you don’t want to commit to watching me get old, or kids, or whatever, that’s fine. I know that it’s asking a lot. Just—if it is something you want, I think you’d be good at it. And I’d want to do it with you.”

And Jimmy—he doesn’t know how to respond to that. It feels like something cracks open in his chest and leaves a gaping sore in its wake, and he doesn’t know if it’s the worst or best thing he’s ever heard. Brady gives him the time.

His face is wet and achy by the time he gets his mouth to work. “Why are we out here?”

“You had your, ‘Woe, everything is more perfect in the sunlight voice,’” Brady responds. It’s not a mean dig, but Jimmy still prickles,

“Okay, well, it didn’t fix everything—”

“I wasn’t trying to fix everything,” Brady interrupts, and he’s quite possibly a saint, Jimmy doesn’t know why he puts up with Jimmy’s shit. “Just—make this moment better.”

The bitter anger and morbidity keeps rolling around in Jimmy’s stomach, too embarrassed to look at Brady head-on.

Across the lake, the Minneapolis skyline is lit up bright against the stained-purple night sky. They’re not that far from the civilization, in the grand scheme of things, and Jimmy can still hear the hum of cars buzzing home, the occasional soaring note from a load radio and open window. Birds and beetles sing their love songs. The lake laps against the shore, steady and gentle, a reflection of the moon rippling with it.

Jimmy breathes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: blood-drinking, existentialism, weddings, babies

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few bits and bobs floating around in my head, but... this is it. I'm in shock. 
> 
> mostly on [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | someone teach me how to use [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna)


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